


The Days of Dust

by manic_intent



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Actual Burglar!Bilbo, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Bilbo, Bofur disagrees, M/M, THIS FIC IS MOSTLY T-RATED, That AU where the Shire was invaded by orcs before the events of the Hobbit, The Burglar's Guild is more of a ... property recovery guild really, and Bilbo absolutely has no time at all between trips to the lowlands, and handling everyone's antics, and the Hobbits sought refuge in Ered Luin, dodging orcs and such, even if it's headed by Nori, nothing about burglary at all honest, to try his hand at courting or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'ullo again, Mister Baggins," the toymaker drawls, without turning around, and Bilbo laughs as he straightens up and steps into the candlelight. </p><p>It's still early enough into the evening that Bofur surely does not truly need to light the tapers as yet, but he's engaged in something delicate, it seems, his thick fingers busy on a knob of wood and his paring knife - he doesn't even look up when Bilbo circles the table to have a look. </p><p>"Someday you'll have to tell me how it is that you always know that I'm there."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose I'm technically 5 days late to starting Nano and I'm not sure if I'll even finish, but oh well. :3 First time trying this pairing! I blame the Hobbit's Extended DVD.

0.

When the orc-kind advanced on the Shire it was in a bleak and inexorable tide that swept the soft and gentle lands of the Shire-folk into ruin and scattered its quiet and peaceable creatures to the wilds. For weeks the woodlands burned, sending waves of oily smoke into the summer sky, and the only people who knew and loved the forests of their lands fled up into the hills and mountains in terror.

For a time, the orc-kind hunted their helpless prey in sport, but soon were called away by the greater power that had sent them so far West, falling back to the blackened fields and wasted smials. They had done what they had come to the Shire to do, and their master was brooding on future conquests. 

Lost, weary and unused to the wilds, it was only through sheer luck that the survivors wandered into the pathways that the dwarves had cut and hidden on the Blue Mountains, and luck again that the summer profits in Ered Luin that year had been great enough to permit taking in and supporting the refugees. For although the Shire folk had not known it then, Ered Luin too had been built by refugees fleeing a great calamity, and its people remembered what it was like to be adrift, friendless and helpless.

I.

"'ullo again, Mister Baggins," the toymaker drawls, without turning around, and Bilbo laughs as he straightens up and steps into the candlelight.

It's still early enough into the evening that Bofur surely does not truly need to light the tapers as yet, but he's engaged in something delicate, it seems, his thick fingers busy on a knob of wood and his paring knife - he doesn't even look up when Bilbo circles the table to have a look. 

"Someday you'll have to tell me how it is that you always know that I'm there."

"Oh, don't y'worry," Bofur grins in a brief flash of white teeth, though he doesn't turn his eyes away from the wood as he flicks off a sliver. "You ain't getting soft. Nobody visits this old place at this time of night and I felt a wee bit of a draft, so I guessed."

"Meaning sometimes you guess wrongly?" Bilbo asks, amused at the thought.

Bofur isn't embarrassed in the least. "It's worth it when I _am_ right, eh? You're impressed, admit it, Master Burglar."

"I was, until you conceded that it was a matter of _guesswork_." Bilbo retorts, though he grins as he says it, probably the only hint of white in his current get-up of gray tunics and a lightweight leather vest and bracers, stained unevenly dark to blend into the shadows. His hood has been pulled back over his cloak, the fabric artfully discoloured to resemble old, dusty cloth, and at his hip his knife's hilt is a dull matte that won't gleam even in candlelight. 

"So what can I do yer for," Bofur glances up, finally. "Weren't you heading out t'day?"

"Mechanism's a little stiff," Bilbo unbuckles one of his bracers and sets it on the toymaker's bench. There's a cunning, wicked contraption strapped to the underside, like a spring-loaded miniature crossbow, and Bofur picks it up and checks the spring, then takes it apart with practiced ease. He oils it up, tests the flex, then puts it back together and hands it back with a flourish.

"There ye go. All set. And I won't hear about payment for such a trifle," Bofur adds, when Bilbo opens his mouth. "Come back in one piece and I'll count us even."

"Hm," Bilbo notes, by way of response - as he always does - and Bofur's friendly smile wilts a fraction: as it always does. He hasn't quite figured that one out yet: but today, as before, it's a question for tomorrow. "Thank you, Master Bofur."

"It's just _Bofur_ ," Bofur corrects absently, though he swivels in his chair to watch Bilbo go, as he bows, slips out of the toymaker's shop and into the street. 

Primula melts out of the alley next to the shop to fall into step with him as they trot briskly towards the night gate, her grin broad and wicked: they pass Bombur's grocery, then later, Ori's tiny little scribeshop, both closed for the day, before Bilbo grows tired of her smugness. "Yes?"

"Don't you think that it's about time...?" Primula has the cheek to ask.

"Time to what? Work?"

"There was nothing wrong with your bolter and he probably knew that as much as I did."

Bilbo sighs. "That's none of your concern, Prim."

"Oh yes? Maybe I should tell Master _Nori_ that you've been getting your tools picked over by a toymaker and not a right proper smith, eh?"

"You tell him that and I'll tell him that you've been sneaking off-quota items to an unnamed swain on the side." 

Primula bristles. " _Everyone_ does it!" Bilbo, however, merely smiles gently if pointedly, and after a while, when they're nearly at the gate, Primula huffs. "Fine. You win. But really, Bilbo, Nori will find out sooner or later."

"So what if he does?"

"Well," Primula flounders, "It isn't right for an outsider t'be involved in Guild business, is it? The smiths we usually go to are contractors, after all."

"This isn't Guild business and Nori will see it that way," Bilbo retorts, if with a touch more conviction than he really feels, but then they're at the night gate, and one of the guards takes their names. The Captain assigned for the night, Glóin, gruffly wishes them good luck as they saddle up on scruffy, well-bred mountain ponies.

Once out of the gate, Primula settles into a workmanlike, watchful silence, and Bilbo forgets the matter of toymakers and quotas for the moment as they descend down the hidden paths in silence. They make good time down the slope, and their ponies quiet only when the paths start to peter out. Out of necessity, the Great Road lies untended: the orc patrols about the mountain's foothills have amplified over the months, though they haven't yet ventured past the main treeline. 

They ride in silence until they reach the first, concealed checkpoint, waiting for the flash of a signal from the guardpost built cunningly high in the branches of an old oak, before taking their ponies further down. It's growing darker now, the branches and leaves almost obscuring all of the moonlight, but their ponies are bred to be surefooted on the slopes, and they know these routes now by heart. 

Bilbo gives the order to stop only once, when he hears the distant howl of a wolf, but after a tense moment of silence he decides that it's just a wild animal, not one of the orcs' twisted pets, and they descend further, winding through the pine and oak, breathing in the clean scents of scrub and bark and leaf-mould. There'll be less of such comforts the further East that they venture, and they're still in the safe lands, for now.

The quiet won't last, though. It hardly ever does, these days.

II.

They encounter their first orc patrol near the foothills, stamping and snarling about in the distance, and Primula glances over at Bilbo, who nods and gestures to his right. There's a bolthole carved into a steep part of the slope, hidden by a false door, and they'll have to leave their ponies there. Pity - there's still a good deal to go, and it'll be hard on foot, but it's nothing that they haven't managed before.

When Primula manipulates the hidden weighted levers of the door and pulls it open, however, a crossbow bolt shoots past her and embeds itself into the tree behind her. She yelps, and Bilbo clasps a hand over the hilt of his knife, then he frowns, hissing, " _Paladin_!"

Paladin grimaces at him, pale and shaking, pressed against the wall, his bolter hand dropping to the ground, his free hand clenching a rag against a seeping wound at his ribs. "Sorry, so sorry," he gasps, even as Primula hurriedly leads their ponies into the bolthole and Bilbo steps out to pull the bolt from the tree. 

Primula's already starting to tend to Paladin's wound from their supplies by the time Bilbo rolls the stone door closed behind them, and he looks Paladin over critically. The other Burglar's lost blood for a time, but it's not fatal: still, enough to be serious. There's scratches on his face and hands, and several shallower lacerations over his thighs, but he's bleeding heaviest from a deep graze to his ribs. 

"Goblins?" Bilbo says at last, frowning, then, "Where's Daisy?"

"Still out there," Paladin hisses as Primula pulls away his vest and then efficiently cuts away his tunic. "Must be... five, six miles East, when we split up. We were going to meet back here - oh _Eru_ , that hurts - goblin ambush. Careless."

It had been a seemingly abandoned merchant's cart, Bilbo learns, the frightened cows yoked to it still and lowing in fright, pulling at their traces. Paladin had been wary, but Daisy had been excited. Livestock would have been a great find: would have gone a good deal towards a quota, even if the merchant's cart had held nothing else. The goblins had been hidden in the long-overgrown fields beside the road. 

"Must've dragged the poor beasties up from Bree-land," Paladin concludes with a grunt and a wince. "Damned goblins. They're getting smarter. Bolder."

Bilbo nods slowly. He doesn't need to be told that. Goblin and orc patrols no longer feared daylight, not even in the lowlands in the shadow of the Mountain, and trade had all but dried up from the East. Only the few fastness and Holdings of the fisher-folk further West from Ered Luin had remained, for now. Eastwards, there was only Bree-land within the stretches of overrun ruin between Ered Luin and Rivendell, and the Elves had long withdrawn into their magic.

"Still have your pony, at least." Bilbo pets the beast as it nuzzles Myrtle's neck for reassurance. "Can you get back to Ered Luin yourself?"

"We'll look for Daisy," Primula assures him. "She's good. Can't be far."

"I'll leave a note," Paladin agrees, a little doubtfully, once he catches his breath. "You'll best be leaving your ponies here, though, if you're going further East."

"We saw a patrol. Orc. Maybe they were looking for you," Primula concedes, with a little frown. "Be careful."

"I'm always careful," Paladin notes, with a touch of his usual Tookish mischief, and leans back against the walls. " _You_ be careful." 

"I've got Bilbo with me," Primula shrugs, and smirks when Bilbo rolls his eyes. "You know what he's like."

"Ered Luin's only sensible burglar," Paladin drawls, with a wink, and Bilbo sighs but allows them a laugh at his expense. Paladin's near to fainting from the pain, and he'll need all the distraction he can get to ride back home safely. 

He worries a little on the way down, until Primula snorts and nudges him in the ribs, then he shakes himself into alertness. They quietly trace Paladin's probable route, sweeping the area, but then they get as close to daybreak as they dared near the foothills, and scurry up an oak to secure themselves down to rest and wait out the day. 

"D'you think she's all right?" Primula whispers once, before they settle down to sleep.

"I'm sure," Bilbo murmurs, though he isn't. The orc patrols were unusually thick on their way down, and they themselves had run into a couple of close calls. He can only hope that Daisy too had hidden up a tree to wait until the heat had settled.

They cross further East when it's dark again, and decide not to keep looking for Daisy. If she's got any sense, Primula notes, she'll be in the bolthole by now, and Bilbo has to agree - the orc patrols have gone back to their normal sweeps, and they head Eastwards on their usual pace. 

The overturned merchant's cart is still there, and although the animals seem to be still yoked to it, they give it a wide berth. It takes them a couple of nights' worth of good time to make it to the edges of the Shire, and by then, they've left the roving patrols behind. Primula stands straighter, but Bilbo's still wary. The orc and goblin-kind may have seemingly long abandoned their rampage through the Shire lands, but his nerves are unsettled by Paladin's mishap. 

"Oh, come on," Primula tries to cheer him up, if in a hushed whisper, as they step quietly through the blackened husks of trees in the Rushock Bog. The bogland is now dead, its waters brackish and pools thick with flies, but they pick through it quickly with the ease of practice, confident. "We're past those nasty patrols now."

"Maybe." Bilbo murmurs, and tries not to jump at shadows as they step quietly towards Hobbiton proper. The few hobbit holes that they pass on the way have long been burned out or filled with stinking refuse, but there are different ways down into the hobbit holes, here and there, and, more importantly, hidden ways into the underground granaries and seed banks still buried beneath Tuckborough.

They dutifully fill their packs to brimming with the seed quotas first, their footfalls without echo in the large, now dark storage vaults of the once prosperous Took clan, and as they start to head out, it's only Bilbo's unsettled nerves that has him drag Primula sharply back behind a storage silo at the sound of a faint scrape.

She frowns at him sharply, then settles down, slowing her breath and quietly drawing her knife, even as Bilbo does the same, waiting. They turn out their senses as they've been taught, even as Bilbo starts to circle away in the shadows of the silent vault, hoping to flank whatever it is that might be in there with them - then he stiffens suddenly as he catches Primula's eyes - they're round with horror, staring at a space just behind him.

It's only instinct that has him turn, bolter up, and he fires true - the bolt slamming into the hairy, many-eyed bulbous head of a spider as big as _Myrtle_. It drops, dead, but Bilbo dives away at another quick movement in his peripheral vision, and another spider pounces out onto the space where he had been, huge mandibles stabbing into space. It staggers back instantly, Primula's bolt buried in its head, and they don't wait to see if there are more - Bilbo and Primula are running for the exit at full pelt. 

They stop only when they're in the woodlands west of Tuckborough, out of breath and still frightened, but there are no more skitters in the dark, only comfortable shadows. Primula sinks against a tree, pale and shaking. "What in the name of Yavanna was _that_?"

Bilbo shudders, and says nothing, his hands planted on his knees, breathing out harshly. Finally, he mutters, "No webs. I would've thought-"

"Spiders that big wouldn't need webs," Primula cuts in, rubbing at her face. "They could hunt like wolves or lions! Valar save us. If they've come and taken over the Shire..."

"If they have, we've got to find out," Bilbo says grimly. "Come on."

Reluctantly, Primula gets to her feet, and they check as much of Hobbiton as they dare as the dark dwindles, and find no other giant spiders. Primula's mood is greatly improved when they stumble on a hidden cellar, buried into a hill, close to Warmeet, still well-stocked, and they take as many bottles as they can carry, wrapping them up in cloth in their packs before sealing the cellar again and marking it on their maps. 

Then they head homewards, in fair spirits. "Probably just some monsters driven West from Rivendell," Primula keeps saying, as though to reassure them both, as they pick their way westwards, packs full and heavy. "Blast. We probably shouldn't have left the carcasses in the seed halls. Nori might be upset about it."

Bilbo nods, but he knows that the two of them would never have been able to move the giant spiders out, not by themselves, even if they could bring themselves to hack them into smaller pieces or something equally horrific, and worse - there might have been more of them in the dark spaces between the silos. Still, he allows himself a tentative amount of good humour: he's over quota, and perhaps one of the wine bottles could go to... well. Perhaps.

"I don't think _your_ 'swain' likes wine," Primula whispers at him when they settle down for the day, and he pulls a face at her. 

Maybe not, then. 

The next day, Bilbo was beginning to wish a little furtively that they had stayed longer in Hobbiton, so that he could have perhaps scrounged up something more suitable as an off-quota gift, when Primula grips his wrist tightly. In the distance, they can see the overturned cart. The animals are gone, but on a tree branch, overhanging the abandoned cart, is a broken body, hanging by its neck from the branch.

Primula lets out a low sob, and Bilbo hastily claps his hand over her mouth. He forces himself to take in the detail with a longer glance, then he tugs at her elbow, then drags at it when she doesn't move.

"We can't just leave her there," Primula whispers. "What if she's still-"

"She's not, Prim, Valar, she's not," Bilbo whispers back. "And it'll be us next if we stay here. Come on!"

Despite his fears, they make it back to the bolthole with only a single close call - Primula had spotted a hidden goblin ambush when one of the goblins had moved against a shrub and shaken it - and they sneak quietly back to their ponies with little mishap. It's tempting to ride back home immediately, but again, they wait for dark; once Bilbo rolls the door closed in the bolthole, Primula starts to cry, quietly, facing the wall: it's only through the shaking of her shoulders and the clench of her hands that Bilbo even knows that she is weeping.

II.

Nori is waiting for them at the night gate, and his face lights up in relief as they ride through, then falls, when he realizes that Daisy isn't with them. He arches an eyebrow at Bilbo, and then he sighs, low and whispery, when Bilbo gives him a half-shake of his head.

They dismount and fall into step beside him as Nori starts to head back towards Guild headquarters. "How's Paladin?" Primula asks. 

"Fine," Nori mutters. "Confined to bed-rest for now. Been asking about Daisy every hour, poor mite. Mahal. Later," he adds, when Bilbo starts to speak. "Not out in the street. How's the haul?"

"Wine," Bilbo murmurs uncomfortably. The sight of poor Daisy had long soured any hint of triumph that Primula and himself had felt about finding the cellar, but Nori still nods curtly.

"Wine'll fetch a good price - if it's any good, that is, of course. Good work," he adds gruffly, when Primula only nods faintly. 

"Are you going to tell the Guard?" she asks, as they turn down a side-street, away from the steadily noisier thoroughfare. It's past dawn, and the streets are growing sturdy with their usual business. 

"Sure I'll have to," Nori mutters. "After I talk to Daisy's mum and da' and all, o' course."

Nori's face is long and a little ashen, and Bilbo nods, slowly. "Second incident in a month," he adds quietly. "And there's more. In Hobbiton-"

"Mahal, there's _more_?" Nori groans. "Here. Wait. I'm probably going to need to sit down."

The Guild's quartered under the Skylark taverns, past the cellars, in an orderly warren of boltholes, storage vaults, sleeping quarters and training rooms. Nori's office is in the centre of it all: not so much an office but a meeting space, a long stone workbench where piles of ledgers and lists and maps line up in a motley wall of yellowing paper and drying ink bottles. Nori settles into a chair wearily, and at a gesture, the two hobbits in the room patiently attending to the ever-impossible ordeal of tidying up the desk nod at them and leave. 

"Now, what's this about more?"

Bilbo tells Nori about the seed silos, interspersed now and then by Primula, and Nori looks grim, but not surprised. At the end of it all, he leans back against the chair, pulling absently at his beard, lost in thought. Bilbo still can't place his age - and if he hadn't known who Nori was, in the street, he wouldn't have been able to place his occupation, either. Nori is dressed unassumingly in brown tunics that hide his leather vest, and his bracers are mostly unadorned, his fingerless gloves worn and stained. His own noticeable aspect are his great tufts of hair, worn in three large triangular points from his face, but Bilbo knows personally how quickly these can be smoothed down, in time for Nori to disappear into a crowd if need be. 

"There's been talk," Nori says finally, "In the fisher towns. The Elves call these... huge spiders... Ungoliant's children. They're a symptom of the Corruption. Spreading out from the Greenwoods, and such." 

"So there's going to be more of them?" Primula grimaces.

"Maybe." Nori scowls at the thought. "I'm going to need to have a think about this."

"We need those seed banks still," Bilbo points out quietly, and when Nori glares at him, he holds up his hands, palms up. "It's going to be a hard winter."

"Who's Guildmaster, eh? Me, or you? Leave the worrying about the city quota to me, Mister Baggins," Nori growls. "Now, what happened to Daisy? Y'saw her body?"

Bilbo does all of the telling, this time, Primula staring hard at the desk, and at the end of it, even the seemingly hardened Nori is grim and a little pale. He stays silent for a long time, until Bilbo starts to shift his feet, then he sighs. "Leave the worrying about that to me, as well. Let's look at the take, then the two of you had better get a good, long rest." 

Dutifully, they hand over the seed packs and the bottles. Bilbo's too tired to try and hide any of the take, and he can see that Primula's the same - then he blinks as Nori, after sorting through the labels, picks out two bottles, handing one to Bilbo, and another to Primula. "Call it a bonus," Nori says, then adds, when Primula's eyebrows arch, "Don't think that I'll be getting into the habit of it." 

"Thank you, Master Nori," Primula says, and manages a weak grin that Bilbo tries to mirror. 

"Now out with the two of you, I need to think. And," Nori adds, with a frown, "Don't spread this about. I'll handle Paladin and the others. Mahal willing, this doesn't have to go all the way to Thorin." 

Nori doesn't sound hopeful about that, though, and it drives in the gravity of the last few nights as they head quietly out of the Guild halls. At the unassuming entrance, past the posted guard, Primula clasps Bilbo's arm. "Go home, Bilbo."

"I will," Bilbo assures her, and adds, "After a fashion," with a grin.

"Seriously, you're better off selling that bottle in the markets and buying That One a scarf," she tells him loftily, and he sniffs. 

"I was going to get _breakfast_ , you tart."

"Well, just..." Primula trails off, uncharacteristically, then squares her shoulders. "I'm off. Get some rest. I have a feeling that we won't be getting as much time off as we normally would, this time."

"Nori's scrupulous about rest," Bilbo disagrees. "Oh, stop worrying, Prim. Go moon about Drogo's window." 

She mimes boxing his ears, but he ducks away quickly with a forced laugh, and they melt into the morning traffic on quiet feet, pulling up their hoods, separating in the next junction, their hearts still heavy with slow grief and horror, the shock of the last few days still quietly catching up on them. Bilbo folds his hands into his pockets with a little sigh, watching the mingled, growing traffic of dwarves and hobbits pass by, and lifts his chin, peering up towards the carven halls further up from the market quarters, to the administration caverns. 

He doesn't envy Nori the day to come, even as he slips through the crowd towards his home above Bombur's grocery, hesitating only once in the street, as he looks up the rise towards the toymaker's shop, then he shakes his head, murmurs to himself, and keeps walking. Maybe tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

III.

Bilbo ends up giving the bottle of wine to Bombur, a little absent-mindedly, sits patiently through the rotund dwarf's transports of joy, prays silently in his mind to Yavanna that the wine won't end up in a cookpot, and accepts a bowl of grapes and a slice of bread, a little reluctantly. The Guild pays well, and Bilbo is conscientious in settling all debts, whether small or perceived, and he eventually ends up guiltily fleeing the grocery to sit on one of the stone benches in the market square with the bowl and his pipe.

Without his cloak and bracers, Bilbo could pass for any one of the other hobbit merchants in the crowd - not that he ever does, not here - he nods at the few Guild members who slip past, and acknowledges all others only if acknowledged first. This is how he rests, at least, on the first day. He loves both the noise around him and the quiet beside him. Here there is still life in all its vast disorganised civility of commerce: dwarves and hobbits both, and the very occasional, trusted Man, shoulders and head rising out of the tide with self-conscious visibility. 

This corner of the market smells of fresh carven oak and sandalwood and elm, and Bilbo warms his fur-covered toes in the sun as he puffs at his pipe and balances the now empty bowl in his lap. He wonders briefly how Paladin is holding up, then Primula, and spares a quiet and melancholy thought for Daisy's kin: then he considers, for a moment, the curiosity of the nature of grief.

Five years ago, Bilbo thinks, or ten, he would have wept as Primula did. Now- 

"'ullo again," Bofur says suddenly, just to the side, and grins when Bilbo flinches and nearly fumbles the bowl off his lap. "Never done that before. Catch a Master Burglar by surprise."

"Ah... ah," Bilbo hurriedly sets Bombur's bowl beside him on the bench, blinking and still mouthing at his pipe, then he coughs as the accumulated smoke pushes urgently at his throat, and ends up with the miserable circumstance of having _Bofur_ laugh uproariously at his expense as he sputters and tries to calm himself. 

He should have listened to Primula and gotten more rest, after all. Bilbo desperately attempts to salvage the moment with a quick, "Good morning, Master Bofur," which he quickly and immediately regrets when Bofur instinctively glances up to check the blue sky. The dwarves aren't quick to understand such greetings, Bilbo recalls, a little sourly, and adds, "On your way to a shift?"

"Aye, what gave that away?" Bofur's mischievous grin is back, as he hefts the heavy miner's pack against his shoulders, the mattock strapped to his back, dressed in the overlapping leather plates of one of the copper seam miners. Bofur's mischief, Bilbo decides a little faintly, is a uncanny thing: it never fails to transform the toymaker's otherwise unremarkable features, like the sun coming up over a rise. There's something secretive about his grin that appeals to all of the trained avarice in Bilbo's burglar's soul, and Bilbo finds himself smiling back, dipping his head. 

"A fine day to you then, and the best of luck."

"Oh, we've been working on this seam for a few days, and it's been yielding as we've expected." Bofur lifts his shoulder into a light shrug. "Nothin' quite like the adventure of wandering out into the wilds with all the orcs about to bring home treasures." 

"I wouldn't quite call our trips _adventures_ ," Bilbo notes, a little taken aback, having never quite thought of it that way, and Bofur laughs again, amused.

"Aye? Then what d'you think of them?"

"They're... necessary." Bilbo frowns a little. As much as it is a pleasure to watch Bofur laugh, even if it _is_ at his expense, he feels the brief need to defend his Guild. "We collect seed packs and useful things for the city, hardly-"

"I didn't mean to say that there wasn't anything responsible about it," Bofur corrects hastily. "Just that it's, well, it's exciting, isn't it?" 

Bofur thinks of Paladin's blood, of Daisy's pale feet, dangling and revolving in a slow circle, high above the ground, and says nothing, puffing at his pipe instead, and after a long moment, Bofur scuffs at the ground and sits down a little heavily beside Bilbo, looking awkward, an arm's length away and at the edge of the stone bench. "I didn't mean t'speak poorly about what you do," Bofur says finally. "Really."

"No. I can see that." Bilbo manages a wan smile. "Perhaps we should speak some other time, Master Bofur. Surely you don't wish to be late for your shift." 

"Um," Bofur tugs absently at the flaps of his wooly hat, uncertain, then he huffs and gets back to his feet. "Right, then. Some other time." 

Bilbo watches Bofur step into the crowds, and sighs to himself, blowing out a smoke ring. Primula could probably have handled that better. Rigged up a dashing swashbuckling tale of derring-do against the spiders in the silos, perhaps, or from dodging orc patrols for days. Paladin could probably have done even _better_. 

It's not only true that he's the most 'sensible' burglar, Bilbo decides, rather glumly, he's also the most boring one in all of Ered Luin. 

Blast.

Primula finds him still puffing away at his pipe later in the morning and flops down beside him. "Did something happen? Are you all right?"

"Just thinking," Bilbo tells her, unwilling to endure yet another uninvited round of teasing. 

"Is it about Daisy?"

"Well, I..." Bilbo fumbles, guilty. He hadn't spared Daisy a single thought since seeing Bofur, and he swallows. "Well."

"You weren't close to her," Primula murmurs - she has excellent instincts - and reaches over to squeeze his hand. Bilbo starts to shake his head, and she adds, more quietly, "And you've been doing this for _years_." 

"What are you saying? That working for the Guild has made me-"

"I'm _saying_ ," Primula says kindly, "That you've learned to hide so well that you've long also started to apply all the same tricks to yourself. Just to survive. Come on," she adds, bouncing to her feet. "Nori wants to see us up in the Council Halls."

"Whatever for?" Bilbo hastily knocks out his pipe, collecting the bowl as he gets to his feet.

"No idea. He sent Magnolia to get me, and I guessed that you were here." 

Puzzled, Bilbo follows - making a brief detour to drop his pipe and bowl back at Bombur's - and they head uphill to the chiselled, high-ceilinged facade of the great administrative halls of Ered Luin, where the higher functions of its interspecies government hold a certain sort of informal intermingling. Hobbits have never been much for lineal lines of government, and their only contribution to Ered Luin's government is the Thain, despite the occasional polite invitations from the dwarves for them to get further involved in the existing, exceedingly dwarven bureaucratic system.

The current Thain is Ferumbras Took, duly elected after the usual four year cycle - apparently a process as mystifying to the dwarves as the dwarven concept of monarchial succession is to the hobbits - and he's waiting for them anxiously on the great stone steps that rise up from the residential quarter into the administration halls, Nori at his side. Ferumbras is a plump, twitchy hobbit with a love of maroon cloth, all the more nervous whenever there actually _is_ something to be nervous about, and as they approach, he looks rather unfortunately like a large, overripe plum, occasionally swaying in a breeze that only he can sense. 

His button-bright eyes are sharp, however, and they sweep Primula's face, then Bilbo's, then settle for darting between them both as they get close. "Bilbo! Have you spoken to Esme yet?"

"Esme? Haven't seen her all day," Bilbo glances over to Nori, who lives a shoulder into a minute shrug. 

"She's on her way here," Nori says flatly. "Lobelia's resting. She'll be right as rain in a week or so."

" _Lobelia?_ " Primula repeats, aghast. "Did something _else_ happen?"

"Not seriously," Nori mutters gruffly. "You'll get to hear all about it when everyone's here. What a fucking day."

Ferumbras winces, but to Bilbo's surprise, doesn't object - scanning the ridges of over-ground buildings that rise at the foot of the steps, instead. Most of the dwarven dwellings of any worth are all deep underground, of course: only the poorer dwarves and the hobbits live near or above ground - the latter by choice. Bilbo's been underground, visiting friends or running errands for Nori, and he's never felt quite comfortable that far from the sunlight.

Eventually, Esme appears puffing up the stairs, still travel-stained and looking tired. She hasn't yet changed out of her gear, and when she clasps Bilbo's hand in greeting, her fingers leave little dusty marks on his palm. 

"You're really all right! That's a relief," Ferumbras exhales. "I guess we can't put this off any longer. Let's go in, shall we?"

"You don't have to be here," Nori points out, with a touch of asperity that only shows in the faint narrowing of his eyes. "It's only city business if-"

"Pardon _me_ , Master Nori," Ferumbras interrupts, eyebrow arched, his prodigious belly trembling as he draws himself up to an indignant full height - which doesn't even crest Nori's shoulder. "But so far, I do believe this 'business' of yours has caused two fatalities and five sets of serious injuries in the past few months, all to _hobbits_ , and that makes it _my_ business as the _Thain_."

Bilbo keeps his face blank, even as beside him, Primula badly hides a grin by coughing. Nori glowers at the both of them briefly before turning around and stalking towards the open granite doors beyond them. "Fine. I just didn't want to make such a fucking _circus_ out of what's hopefully just _Guild_ business."

IV.

Bilbo's never been in the Great Halls of Ered Luin before, save on minor administrative matters, decades ago when he was a hobbitling and accompanied always by his mother or father. The heavily armed dwarven guards at the entrance wave them through, and they pass through several corridors bustling with dwarves and hobbits alike, darting to and fro, often with ledgers or reams of parchment in their arms. They earn more than a few curious glances as they descend past the general floor, then further down, past the Archives, until they reach Durin's Court - a vast chamber buttressed by stone pillars that the dwarves had carved out of the mountain itself.

The bleak granite throne on the raised dais is empty - and as far as Bilbo is aware, it's been empty for decades: at least ever since the hobbits had gained an equal standing in Ered Luin and had made it a somewhat awkward relic of its previous, purely dwarven past. Instead, a huddle of advisors look up from a long white stone table to the right of the dais, and shuffle away at Ferumbras' waddling approach to reveal the last of the line of Durin.

Prince Frerin grins at their approach, golden-haired and leonine and as instantly friendly as he's reputed, two silver beads in his beard and his long, tawny mane braided thick over one shoulder, a dense, short-handed hammer at one hip. Beside him, his fraternal twin, Princess Dís, frowns unsmilingly at them over her brother's shoulder, her ebony bow slung at her back. Standing at the head of the table, glancing up only when Ferumbras reaches the end of it, is King Thorin, absently fingering the battleaxe at his hip, and he scowls a little as Nori puts a little swagger into his step.

Bilbo nudges Esme pointedly as she cups her hands to her mouth to swallow a snigger, and the hobbits meekly come up behind their Guildmaster. "Your Majesty and Excellencies," Nori drawls grandly, "May I introduce-"

"I know who they all are," Thorin interrupts, shooting them all a flat glance before tracking his intense eyes back to Nori. "I've read your report."

"Well then, your Majesty," Ferumbras says firmly, "Don't you think it's high time that the city put some _restraints_ on the operation of this so-called Burglar's Guild? We-"

" _Oi_ ," Esme had interjected sharply.

"Where're you going to get all the seed and grain stock from then, eh?" Primula had chimed it at the same time.

"Will the two of you just be quiet until you're called on," Nori growls, but they ignore him, still trying to talk over each other, until Bilbo sighs, and grasps their wrists. Reluctantly, they settle down, shuffling at their feet and muttering under their breaths, and Dís glances at Bilbo with a sudden curiosity.

"Your face is familiar to me," she says, finally. "Bilbo Baggins, was it?"

"Aye, your Highness." 

"You knew his mum," Nori mutters, cutting through Bilbo's surprise. "Belladonna."

" _Bella_?" Dís looks pleased, all of a sudden, and there's a gleam of mischief in her eyes that makes her oldest brother frown at her. "Oh, you've all grown up, Mister Baggins. The last I saw you, you were wee little thing, still swaddled up in your cradle."

" _Reminiscing aside_ ," Thorin growls, with a pointed glare at his sister, who stares back at him, unrepentant, "The first matter put to this Council from Thain Ferumbras is so addressed. Ered Luin has no laws restricting its citizens from doing whatever they please, as long as they are of age to understand the consequences. What Master Nori and his... associates... do in their time is unrestricted by Ered Luin as long as they break no laws, and they can venture as far as they please."

Ferumbras reddens, but exhales loudly and says nothing. 

"High words, O King," Nori says dryly, "Given that my 'associates' have been the source of just about all of your decent information about orc movements and encampments over the past few years since we started ranging outward, eh? Not to mention our contribution to the city stores and seed banks?"

Bilbo watches in fascination as Thorin colours gradually and one of the portly advisors by his side with a flourish of a white beard tufts... Balin, his name was, Bilbo recalls, after a little moment's thought. "Ered Luin recognises your Guild's contribution to the city's safety, Master Nori," Balin says mildly. "And we understand that it is indeed... information... that brings you to this table."

"The Corruption is coming further West," Nori notes quietly. "Bilbo and Primula here fought Ungoliant's Children in Hobbiton. I've lost two very good agents to orc and goblin ambushes between Ered Luin and the Shire, me, just over the past few months, and very nearly lost a few more to the stepped up patrols and tactics. They're trying to blind us." 

"No orc has found our tradeways-" Frerin begins.

"We're all aware that the orc know fucking well where we are," Nori interrupts, with a touch of impatience, "Dig as deep as we want, it's rather fucking hard to hide an entire city of dwarves _and_ hobbits, especially when the enemy has eyes in the air, eh?"

Frerin starts forward, but Dís grips his elbow firmly, and he subsides. "You suspect an imminent attack?"

"No. The orc know better than to try and dig out a fortified dwarven city by themselves, especially from an overland attack. We all know that."

"So what do you think?" Thorin asks, and there's a touch of disdain in his tone. 

"They're setting up for something. Something big." 

"The orc menace has always been-" Thorin starts.

"What you should perhaps consider, your _Majesty_ ," Nori doesn't bother to hide his scorn, making Balin glower at him, "Is why now? They've never been that bothered with us before. My agents are good, and light on their feet, and we've never had anything more than the occasional spot of trouble. Why are they stepping up the tactics _now_?"

Thorin mutters something probably rude under his breath, and to Bilbo's surprise, it is Dís who watches them keenly. "You believe that this lies in Miss Esmeralda Took's foray. The report states that she and her associate, Miss Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, ventured Eastward on what your guild calls a 'mid-haul' trip, into Bree-land. Therein, they ran afoul of a warg scouting team and managed to flee home with thankfully non life-threatening injuries to Miss Lobelia. Correct?"

"More or less. Come up here now, Esme," Nori's tone turns a little gentler. "That wasn't all of it. And might I say, maybe you don't want too many people in on the rest of it yet."

Thorin straightens up, and he holds a whispered conversation with his siblings before nodding at Balin, who, with the other advisors, amble briskly out of the hall. Thorin glances at Ferumbras, who bristles visibly at the silent question, staying put, then he looks from Bilbo and Primula to Nori.

"Your associates?"

"We'll need them in on this. You'll see. All right, Esme. Tell him the rest of it."

"There's an orc encampment ten miles south from Bree," Esme says promptly, if nervously. "A fresh dug one, can't be older than a couple of weeks - that's the last time me and Lobelia were out that far. Lobelia wanted to skirt it but I was curious, I mean, I wanted to get just a bit closer, see if they were preparing to attack us or Bree or something, I was worried about home and-"

"Tell them about the prisoner," Nori cuts in firmly, and Esme flushes.

"Right! right. Lobelia and I climbed up the highest tree we could find and looked in. There was a prisoner in the yard in the camp. He was a dwarf," Esme said in a stammer, then she blurted out the rest all in a rush, "A male dwarf. He was cut all over but I think he was alive, sir. Oh sir, he had one eye. A great big old scar over his left eye. And a, a, triangular tattoo, above his nose and, and traces down the bridge of his nose."

Dís had gone so pale that for a moment, Bilbo feared that she was about to faint, her grip white-knuckled on Frerin's wrist, while Thorin had clenched his hands tightly on the edge of the stone table. "You speak true?" he said finally, and his voice shook. "You saw true?"

"I'll stake my month's take on it," Esme said quickly, then blushed when she seemed to think this perhaps petty. "I mean, I'm sure of it, your Majesty. After, after we saw it, we got back down, we were going to come right home, but then we were a bit too noisy about it and we nearly got caught, we got shot at and Lobelia got an arrow in her shoulder but we got all the way home, as quick as we could." 

There was a long silence, as Thorin clenched his hands on the table, and Bilbo found Primula standing closer to him, then they jumped when Frerin slammed his fist on the stone. "It must be. It must be! We never found Father's body. The orcs have him. We must ride out in force. Scour that encampment from the land. Teach them the-"

Nori wasn't even looking at the Prince. "Esme, tell them everything."

"Ah, ah," Esme quivered briefly. "He... he, I couldn't see it too clear from the tree, but Lobelia said that she thinks that he was wearing something around his neck. Something bright on a chain. She's, she's always got a better eye for gold than I ever did." 

"Grandfather's ring," Dís frowns. "Well, well."

"And, and," Esme adds quickly, at another glance from Nori, "While me and Lobelia were dodging patrols to come back up here, there was talk of... waiting. That they were there, waiting. The orcs and goblins, that is, in that camp."

"'Waiting'?" Thorin repeats. "For what?" 

"Obviously for the lot of you in your shining fucking gear to come and fall head-first into a trap," Nori stabs a finger over the map scrolled over the table. "It's going to be a couple of days' forced march - or more - and very hard going through the mountain where you'll be harried at every flank through all the orc patrol points, maybe even monsters out of the spreading Corruption, and then a longer walk over the flat plains to Bree-land. _Not to mention_ that you'll be leaving Ered Luin nice and empty. Eh?"

"Then what do you _suggest_?" Dís asks tightly. "That we abandon our Father? And that _ring_ of _power_ to the orc?"

"Actually, I propose that we handle this with subtlety. I'll pick a team of my best agents. We can leave immediately. Get through the forests quicker than an army. We can check if this bait's worth taking or-"

"And waste precious time?" Frerin demands hotly, swinging around to regard his brother. "I say we attack, Thorin. Muster our forces. March on Bree-land."

"Just saying, seeing as one of my agents was recently killed by a honey trap, except set with a pair of oxen and not with a dwarf," Nori notes flatly. "I don't doubt Esme's testimony and the two of them had a balrog of a time getting back here, but I don't think it's a coincidence that only one of them is badly injured. I think the orc _wanted_ that news to get back to us. It might not even be Thráin. Esme and Lobelia have never seen him before - that raid that got your grandfather and father while they were out hunting was from before they were born!"

"I think," Thorin raises his voice a fraction when Frerin looks as though he would object again, "That perhaps a mixed approach might be the best option. Frerin and I will march on Bree-land with our army. Dwalin will stay here with enough dwarves to hold Ered Luin if need be. Nori will take his associates and leave quickly tonight to scout the lands and see if this... prisoner... is who he truly seems to be, and report back to Frerin and I once the situation is understood." 

"And myself, dear brother?" Dís asks, with deceptive sweetness. 

"Well, you stay here with Dwalin, of course," Frerin says, with surprise.

"Oh 'of course', are we?" 

Thorin looks pained. "Sister, we'll discuss this later."

Dís snarls, informing her brother in the harsh dwarven tongue exactly what she thinks of that, and judging from Frerin's wince and Thorin's grimace, none of it is remotely gentle. Balling up her hands, the Princess storms out of the hall. Nori's expression stays carefully blank, but Bilbo's known him long enough to know that the Guildmaster is... amused.

Thorin waits until the great doors slam shut, then he adds, tiredly, "Ferumbras, are we in accord? We will appreciate any help that your hobbits can extend to this effort." 

"We'll help with the packing and supply work," Ferumbras says doubtfully and awkwardly, "We're very good at that and we won't begrudge you anything, I'll get the word out immediately. But um, the most, er, capable of us in this, er, way, are already employed by, ah, Master Nori." 

"But of course." Thorin nods. "Nori, take a couple of the ravens with you. Take your pick." 

"I'll be travelling light and with a small group. Most of my 'associates' will probably be good to help support the defences of the city as archers or join up with the muster as scouts, whatever they prefer." Nori looks satisfied. "I'll let them know."

"How small a group?"

"Just who you see in this room." Nori gestures at Esme and to a blinking Bilbo and Primula. "My best. And we can move quickest in a small group."

"I might have to call it a military exercise," Thorin mutters, glancing at Frerin. "If it isn't Father and it is a trap, I'm uncertain if we can commit our forces into engaging the orc."

"It's still a life," Frerin disagrees, frowning. "Thorin, you can't just-"

"This is where I bow out," Nori interrupts dryly. "I'll leave the philosophy and strategy to you blue-blooded folk. Us, we'll leave as soon as we can." 

Thorin sighs, then he rounds the table and clasps Nori tightly by the hand, then, to their surprise, he shakes the rest of their hands as well, grimly. "Good hunting. And stay safe. We might not have always seen eye to eye, Master Nori, but trap or not, this is a great service that you have done me and my line today."

"Mahal's balls, I hope you remember that during the next general Council meeting when certain members complain about the 'morality' of my Guild's existence," Nori retorts, though he grins sharply even as he says this. 

"And," Thorin adds, and then he lowers his voice, murmuring something in the dwarven language that only Nori can hear. 

Nori snorts. "You think that I didn't know that already?"

Thorin exhales loudly yet again, more wearily, then he inclines his head at them again and turns back to the map. Nori signals quietly to them, and Bilbo sneaks only one last glance over his shoulder before he follows the rest of them out of Court, Ferumbras puffing along at their heels. Thorin and Frerin are already arranging metal tokens quietly on the map on the table, their backs turned. So this is how a war begins, Bilbo thinks, and shivers.


	3. Chapter 3

V.

Nori had insisted that they complete a routine gear check first, despite the time constraints, and as Bilbo's patiently waiting outside the blacksmith with Primula and Esme, Primula stops in the middle of her sentence, grins, and nudges Bilbo in the ribs with her elbow. Esme rolls her eyes, grabs Primula by the elbow, and drags her into the smithy, even as Bilbo straightens up and turns, a brief pulse of excitement sweeping his nerves.

Bofur stops a little hesitantly in his tracks, as though abruptly unsure of his destination, then steps closer anyway. He's liberally dust-stained, even to the flaps of his beloved woollen hat, and for a moment, in the warmth of the afternoon sun, out of breath and disheveled, Bofur cuts such an endearingly rumpled figure that Bilbo can't help but grin at him, caught up in a sudden rush of warmth.

"Shouldn't you still be on your shift?"

"Aye, well, the mines are where the gossip be," Bofur pulls awkwardly at his dusty sleeves, "And even if it weren't, the King's a-calling for dwarves and hobbits to bolster the ranks for some sort o' march."

"That's quick," Bilbo notes, schooling his expression, but perhaps it isn't smooth enough - Bofur sighs. 

"Look. You're going, aren't you? I'm guessing, your Guild are all gonna sign up as scouts?"

"I can't speak for the Guild."

"What about yourself, then?" Bofur asks, keenly. 

"Well, Master Bofur," Bilbo begins, hesitates, then adds, cautiously, "Why would it matter?"

"Why would it..." Bofur catches himself with a sharp inhalation, and then he smiles, but it's brittle and obviously forced. "Well, ah, the lads and I were thinking of signing up, and we'll feel right better if your Guild was acting as the army's eyes."

"You're no soldier," Bilbo disagrees, with a sinking heart.

"Every dwarf learns how to handle at least one weapon."

"And yours is?"

The direct and perhaps rather rude question doesn't faze Bofur in the least. "A mattock's as good as an axe if it's swung in the right direction." He grins with a touch of his usual mischief as he says this, but Bilbo refuses to be charmed.

"I understand that a number will be required to remain in Ered Luin to hold the grounds. Perhaps your 'lads' and yourself should leave the marching to the career soldiers, Bofur."

"So there'll be orcs, then?" 

"At the least," Bilbo mutters. "There may be worse than orcs now."

"Ah, well then," Bofur shrugs, "You're going out there, aren't you?" 

"I've been going 'out there' for years. I'll be fine." Depressingly, Bilbo senses that he's getting nowhere, and Bofur doesn't seem distracted in the least by his evasions. Blast dwarves and their stubbornness! "Can't I persuade you to stay here, within the city? Do you even own a set of armour?"

"Now you're starting to ask hurtful questions, you," Bofur says, with mock sorrow, though he's grinning again, clearly satisfied, groping around in his pockets. Stained fingers eventually come up with a small, wrapped up bit of cloth, which he fumbles with for a moment before pushing it into Bilbo's hands. "Here. I was going to give it to you the next time I saw you... I mean, in the workshop... or... I guess now's as good a time, is what I mean."

Bilbo unwraps the cloth, trying not to show his growing excitement and curiosity. It's a beautiful wooden brooch, a little wider than his thumb, carved of oak and stained dark on the outside, shaped like a leaf - the silver inlay is on the inside, tracing out the veinwork of a leaf in intricate swirls. Hobbits do love presents, and this is a very rich present indeed. "Why, Master Bofur-"

"There's a - careful, your fingers - there's a small catch on the bottom. Like so." Bofur's fingers are rough and warm over his as he shows Bilbo the tiny, hidden button at the bottom of the leaf. Noiselessly, a blade slides out from the tip of the brooch, almost as wide as the brooch itself. At a pressure and slide of the catch, the blade slips back into its sheath.

"It's ah, I just thought about it a few days back, after I fixed up your bolter," Bofur's starting to fiddle with his sleeves again. "It's a wee thing, might not be useful for much. I've got other ideas. For things. That'll be more useful," he amends, blushing a little under his cap when Bilbo can't help but smile at it all, the first spark of brilliant pleasure that he's felt since he had last returned to Ered Luin, since he had last seen the overturned cart on the road with its grisly trophy. 

"I'm sure that it will come to be of use. Thank you very much." Bilbo removes the clasp of his cloak and affixes the brooch to it instead, and Bofur beams with a craftsman's pride - and something more, Bilbo thinks. Yes. No. The world returns into focus, with the growing buzz of a city beginning to be thrown into muster, to the rhythmic ringing of a hammer and anvil behind him. This is a distraction that he does not need, not yet. "It's too handsome for me to accept as a gift. You must name a price." 

Bofur seems to have accepted this - he grins. "Well then, maybe you'll have a beer with me after this is over, and we'll swap stories."

"Bofur - this isn't an adventure. It's a-"

"I know what it is," Bofur interrupts, "I'm not just a toymaker, or a miner, Mister Baggins. I've got me eyes open. I've..." he hesitates, for a moment, then adds quickly, "If whatever it is that the King's got in mind is important enough for all this blather and bounce, then I - ah, the lads and I - are going to be signing up anyway."

"All right," Bilbo caves. He can see Bofur's logic there, and besides, he's heard that helping to answer a grudge is a matter of honour among dwarves, or something like that. It's a matter of culture that's always been of some manner of perplexity to the far more easy-going, peaceable hobbits. "But I'll hold you to that promise of a beer, after all this."

"As will I." They shake hands on it solemnly, though Bofur's mischievous grin threatens to steal the moment, then Bofur's ambling back down towards the marketplace, where Dwalin has set up an orderly conscription point, by the looks of the queue that's already forming up. Bilbo internalises a sigh as he watches Bofur go, pushing his hands into his pockets. 

"That was pathetic," Primula murmurs behind him.

"Oh, shut up."

"It's a pretty brooch, though," Esme adds loyally, with a grin. 

"Although I think the little knife's too tiny to be useful," Primula adds, revealing that they've clearly been shamelessly eavesdropping all the way. Bilbo sighs. "But it's clearly the thought that counts," she adds quickly. 

"How did you even meet him, anyway?" Esme asks.

"Bilbo ran into Bofur in Nori's little brother's shop by total coincidence," Primula tells Esme, before Bilbo can get a word in. "I think Bofur was there to dictate a letter."

"You mean he can't even read and write?" Esme looks surprised. "Why, and Bilbo with his love of books and poetry-"

"Are the two of you quite finished?" Bilbo scowls. "I'm sure that Master Bofur can read _and_ write. There's just some funny arrangement that the dwarves have about scribing and their secret language, that's all. And besides, Master Ori has the most beautiful calligraphy, it's a right proper gift sending out a letter scribed by him. I didn't pry." 

Although he had been a little tempted.

Just a little.

"He's not even a very _handsome_ dwarf," Esme notes in a stage whisper. 

"But it's not uncommon for dwarves and hobbits to, well, mix about," Primula adds, with a cheeky grin. 

"But then," Esme continues, when Bilbo rounds on her with a glare, "You know what most of those dwarves are like about what our Guild does. They've got a funny idea about what we do. Why, I've had some dwarves once tell me that it's tantamount to stealing!"

"Rubbish," Primula agrees vigorously. The initial general dwarven prejudice against the Guild's faded over the years, especially after their continued, steady contribution towards the seed stores and the local economy, but it's still there. 

The hobbit community, on the other hand, sees it rather more as a useful activity. Dangerous, but useful - and often sentimental. There's a standing Contract Board in the Guild entrance where anyone can pin up requests - along with a promised reward - although Nori's always made it quite clear that Guild quotas came first, and the Guild took a cut on any Contract.

"He isn't like that at all," Bilbo mutters.

"Oh aye, what with the presents, and obviously fishing as to where you're going to be tomorrow, and trying to prove to you that he's more than just a toymaker," Primula grins, and dodges out of range when Bilbo rounds on her. 

"I have no idea what you are talking about in the least!"

"That much's obvious," Esme drawls, rolling her eyes extravagantly. "Come on. Our gear's done, and we're due to meet up with Nori at the Guild." 

"I've got supplies from my landlord," Bilbo says, still irritated, "But I shan't be sharing any with either of you now."

"You're still living over that shop?" Esme looks surprised. "Why, even if you didn't earn enough on our current work, I'm sure your ma would've left you-"

"She did," Bilbo interrupts sharply, "And yes. But I'm quite comfortable where I am right now, thank you."

"He gets fed all the time where he is," Primula confides loudly, and Esme pulls an envious face - thankfully, they've forgotten all about it by the time they reach the Guild.

VI.

Nori's office is the biggest room in the Guild, and usually even at the height of activity it seems large to Bilbo, converted from what was once apparently some sort of small dining hall for the dwarves. Today it's packed full, fuller than Bilbo can ever remember, and it's standing room only. Even Paladin and Lobelia are there, in padded chairs at the very back, and Paladin offers them a brief wave. His face is still pale and stricken with grief, and Bilbo nods and waves back.

Nori's standing on his table, today cleared of all documents, and his little brother Ori, to Bilbo's surprise, is standing right next to him, a large ledger in his hands, scribbling furiously. They're taking a roll call, Bilbo realizes - another surprise - he's never had that happen before either: and it seems that Prim, Esme and himself have missed the group briefing. Nori's already well into finding out who wants to go where, and presumably having Ori record it down. Occasionally, he disagrees with a choice, and the Burglar in question as far as Bilbo can tell merely shrugs and agrees. 

Bilbo hides a grin. Free to do as they like, eh? The Guildmaster's word still holds weight. 

The Guild's mainly made up of hobbits, and of that, mostly Took and Brandybuck hobbits - or people of direct Took and Brandybuck descent, Bilbo notes, amused. There are a couple of Bolgers in the crowd, and of course a handful of Sackville-Bagginses, and some representatives from the minor clans, but they're by far the minority. There are also a few dwarves - five of them - and they all get assigned to the marching army. Magnolia gets deputised to organise the scouts, and Odovacar gets put in charge of those staying behind.

With Guild business attended to, Nori allows a panicky and painfully relieved-looking Ori to step off the table and into the crowd, though he hesitates once he's on the ground. "What?" Nori demands of his little brother.

"Er..." Ori swallows. "Were you going to make a speech or something? Because if you were, I'll stay and scribe it down and-"

"A speech? What d'you think this is, a Guild of warriors and guardsmen?" Nori scowls mightily, and the Guild laughs, with a hearty roar that shakes the ground, with hoots and cheers from some of the younger Tooks. 

Even Bilbo grins, despite knowing the full weight of the task before them, and Primula and Esme are both clapping and shouting, adding to the mad clamour. It's as far from general respectability as a hobbit can get, and they're revelling in it - when Nori steps off the table dozens of hands try to pat him on the back. With a single line, Nori's accomplished what a pretty speech probably couldn't have done - at least, not in their line of work.

"The lot of you took long enough to get back here," he tells them gruffly, as they get to the Guild stables and pick out their ponies. Two ravens are balanced patiently on the stable door of Nori's pony's stall, and at his gesture, one hops onto his shoulder, while the other perches, to Bilbo's dismay, on Bilbo. The large bird is heavier than it looks, and he grimaces as it shifts its claws over his cloak.

"Er," he starts.

"We can't be scouting about in so large a group," Nori unlatches the door and starts saddling his pony efficiently, even as the rest of them follow suit. "We'll split up. You'll be with Esme and I'll be with Primula. I'll be the one verifying whether the prize is worth taking. You'll be checking out how much shit Thorin might have to wade through to get to it."

It's not an appealing image in the least, and Bilbo pulls a face. "All right."

Nori hesitates for a moment in the middle of strapping on the bridle, and sighs. "This probably isn't the best moment to bring this up, but your mum was, as you know, the co-founder of the Guild and-"

"And perhaps it can be brought up after," Bilbo interrupts, with a quick grin that he hopes is reassuring. "Besides," he adds lightly, "I'm surprised that _you're_ going out in the field."

"What," Nori scowls at him as he saddles up, "Are you trying to suggest something?"

"Only that you might be getting a little rounder about the waist recently, O Guildmaster," Esme drawls. 

"None of your cheek, Took," Nori glowers at her, and they ride out of the stables into the sun - only to be abruptly joined by another mounted, hooded dwarf in an unassuming, shapeless gray cloak, folded in a way that suggests at a bow under it all. Nori reins the pony to a stop, and sighs. "You. I know what you're going to ask, and the answer is 'no'. You'll only slow us down." 

The dwarf replies in gruff Khuzdul, and after a moment, Nori looks back at them. "Head over to the night gate. I'll catch up. _Go_ ," he adds sharply, when Primula merely looks curiously at the newcomer. 

"Come on," Bilbo encourages them, and they take their ponies in a quick canter to the main thoroughfare, heading for the night gate. 

"Who was that?" Esme begins, even as Primula starts to laugh.

"Her brother probably knew exactly where she was going to turn, eh?"

"What do you mean, Prim?" Esme starts, then she blinks owlishly. "Oh! Was that-"

"Hush," Bilbo interrupts quickly, with a quick glance about, and they ride in silence to the night gate, reining up at the guardhouse. He supposes, in a way, that he's sorry for the Princess, but she _will_ slow them down, and she will be a liability. 

Still. The line of Durin is notoriously stubborn, and hot-tempered, and he can't really see what Nori might be able to say to dissuade her. Or escape her. 

"What was Nori going on about in the stable about your mother?" Esme asks, deciding clearly to change the subject.

"Ah," Bilbo scratches at his temple, a little embarrassed. "Well, ever since my mother passed away, Nori's had to run the Guild by himself, and although Ori helps out with the books and sometimes I help out as well when I can, he, well, he wants someone else on board to help with running things, and-"

"But that's _wonderful_ ," Primula interrupts brightly. "You'll make a _great_ co-Guildmaster."

"You mean I'll make a terribly awful one," Bilbo corrects tiredly. "I'm hardly charismatic, like Nori, or a leader of any sort. I'm just a hobbit who happened to get into his mother's line of work. And besides," he adds firmly, when Esme opens her mouth to object, "I'm happy ambling on quietly as I am. I don't want to be 'Belladonna Took's son' for the rest of my life. Following where she's been."

Primula grins, and steps her pony over so that she can clasp him on the arm. "You think far too much, Master Baggins. That's a good sign too, by the way." 

"I don't want Nori to feel obligated because the Guild was also co-founded by my mother," Bilbo tries, but Esme is clearly also equally taken by the idea: she's grinning as broadly as Primula.

"Didn't you hear Nori say that you were one of his best?"

"Besides," Primula adds dryly, "He probably would like you to handle the diplomatic part of running the Guild. Your mother used to handle it, after all, and it's the part that drives Nori up the wall." 

"Don't I know it," Bilbo says sourly. Nori's been trying to nudge him into that role for all of the past year. Bilbo, however, would very much rather spend his downtime smoking and sampling Bombur's very many beautiful pies and stews than traipsing around the dwarves' unnecessarily intricate bureaucracy. As far as the hobbits were concerned, the dwarven government was excessively complex. 

Still, it doesn't help that Nori obviously never bothers to hide his open contempt for politics and politicking, and the position of the Guild in the city might be less socially unstable if its Guildmaster wasn't quite so unrepentant about ruffling everyone's feathers... and maybe Bofur would think of it as less of a... flightly profession. Going on adventures, indeed! 

"Oh, blast and bother," Bilbo mutters, finally. "I'll think about it. Afterwards." 

"Good!" Primula claps his arm again. "Oh. Here's Nori."

"And he's ditched Your Highness," Esme adds, a little gleefully. Nori looks sour as he reins up next to them, alone, and he gestures for silence when Bilbo starts to question him. 

It's only after they're let out of the gate and are starting briskly down the tradeways that Nori finally mutters, "She won't be following us."

"You're sure about that?" Esme asks.

"Of course I'm sure, Mahal's balls," Nori expostulates, though he does sneak a quick, furtive glance behind his shoulder. "I got Dwalin to lie in wait, though I let her say her piece first just so that it wasn't too obvious. I've had Gerda keeping an eye on her since the Council meeting, just in case. The Princess is a very good archer, but she'll be blundering about in the bush and announcing our presence to the entire fucking orc _army_ if she comes along. She'll be better off defending Ered Luin's walls."

"Wouldn't she be mad at you about this?"

"I'll rather that she be mad at me than her brothers," Nori shrugs. "Thorin is King, not Dís." He does, however, shoot another furtive glance behind him, then he sighs. "She did make me promise to tell Thorin the absolute truth about the whole sorry situation as I see it, though. After we get a good look at the encampment. Blast."

"'Blast'?" Esme repeats, incredulous.

"You were going to _lie_?" Primula adds, equally aghast. 

Nori scowls at them. "What d'you want, eh? A war? Over a single dwarf?" 

"They seemed to think that the ring was important-"

"There's rings a-plenty, everywhere. I'm not keen on seeing blood spilled on the ground just because a bit of a trinket that used to belong to Thorin's grandfather's grandfather, or whatever it is that's so important about it, Mahal take them all." Nori rolls his eyes. "Certainly we hold a grudge against the orc-kind for all their atrocities, but we have not the strength to war against them. Not any more. It's been hard enough building up Ered Luin."

"I heard that the old King - Thorin's grandfather - once thought about marching on another fortress," Primula pipes up. "Óin told me about it."

"Oh aye," Nori grumbles. "He was thinking about clearing out one of the old dwarven holdings. We'd just about started to settle everyone nicely in the Blue Mountains at that point. But then the orcs pushed West and, well, that was the end of that. Got too busy. All in all, I feel it's a good thing that we never marched on that damned place. That old place is cursed. Hard enough defending what we have, there's no use a-chasing after empty old halls and blasted old heirloom rings." 

"But Nori, you made me tell them about the ring," Esme blurts out, bewildered.

"No, I made you tell them what you and Lobelia saw. You weren't either of you sure that it was a ring," Nori corrects. "They jumped to their own damned conclusions and I couldn't control it. Mahal's bloody beard, that was a miscalculation. Besides, even if it was a ring made by Durin himself, or whatever it is, it's not worth tripping this trap over." 

"But we're still scouting the land anyway?"

"Aye," Nori sighs explosively. "Because if I know my King, and particularly, that damned hotheaded brother of his, they'll be going to war anyway, Mahal take the consequences, and if they are, then I want them to know exactly what they'll be getting themselves into."

"Thorin seemed a little hesitant," Bilbo allows, doubtfully. "At the end."

"Maybe. But his little brother and his sister have him twisted around their fingers, and he'll do what they want him to if push comes to shove," Nori scowls. "As much as I understand the sentiment," he adds irritably, when Primula and Esme grin hugely - it's no secret how psychotically protective Nori sometimes is of Ori - "I don't appreciate it when so much is at stake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the slightly lost right now-
> 
> 1\. Thror is dead and Thrain was presumed dead, after a raid on their hunting party.  
> 2\. The battle at Moria never happened, because the Orcs invaded first and the Hobbits fled into Ered Luin.  
> 3\. Thorin is King of Ered Luin.  
> 4\. I've always assumed that the Rings of Power etc isn't really common knowledge.  
> 5\. I haven't yet decided whether to write Gandalf into this fic, but he probably will end up popping by, if only because he's my favourite Tolkien character...  
> 6\. It was tempting to have Dis come along, but I can't handle that many characters all at once :/


	4. Chapter 4

VII.

Primula freezes instantly within the bolthole after a step, and Bilbo's hand jumps to the hilt of his knife before he realizes what had spooked her. Old bloodstains, caked on the packed dirt of the ground and the smoothened wall. Esme had used the bolthole while she and Lobelia had been fleeing back home - the blood had to be Lobelia's. The rest of the bolthole's in similar disarray, all clear signs of an uneasy stay and a quick flight - there's hoofprints all over, and it hasn't been cleaned out of its previous use as a hideout for hobbits and their ponies: the scent is unpleasant but not unbearable.

"Ah," Esme murmurs, and starts to tremble under the memory - it snaps Primula out of her daze and she hugs Esme fiercely, even as Bilbo reaches over and awkwardly squeezes her palm. They don't quite manage to calm her down, although she does swallow hard and steady her hitching breaths into shallow, slow gasps, then Esme sits down all of a sudden as though her knees can't bear her weight, and buries her face in her hands. 

Nori, however, just stamps past them, glowering fiercely, and settles down in the far corner of the bolthole. The space isn't really made for four persons plus their ponies, and it's awkwardly cramped, even when they manage to persuade the ponies to settle down. The poor beasts are spooked, having crossed orc spoor on the way to the bolthole, and they're still stamping and whinnying softly and unhappily to themselves. The bolthole soon smells very strongly of warm animal on top of the old scents, and Bilbo wonders if they're going to clean it first - as per procedure - before heading on towards Bree-land. 

Probably not.

The ravens perch on Myrtle's saddle, preening themselves, and Bilbo unpacks dry rations from the saddlebags, feeding the ravens first with strips of dried meat before doling out ration packs to the rest. They eat in silence, clean up efficiently, and then Nori instructs, "Rest."

"You're not resting," Bilbo points out. Nori has a map out over his knees, and a hooded lantern.

"I'll sleep soon enough." 

Bilbo shrugs at Primula and Esme, who nod and settle down over their cloaks. He himself steps over to Nori, sitting down next to the lantern. Nori glowers briefly at him, though he only speaks in a soft voice, and this only when Primula and Esme drop off into a quick, if shallow sleep. "You didn't get enough rest over in Ered Luin. Rest up. That's an order."

"The Guild's not one for orders," Bilbo points out, with a grin. "And if you want me to help out at the top level, there's no better time than now, eh?"

Nori sighs, and shifts the map to the ground, reluctantly. "I miss your mum sometimes," he grumbles. "She probably would have handled blasted Thorin and his siblings better. I think I've definitely made a hash of it after all."

"What was the alternative? Tell Esme not to spread around the news? You know what they say about a Took and keeping secrets-"

Nori sniffs, unwilling to be baited with humour. "Don't think that I'm not seriously wishing that I had considered that as an alternative. Damn! Ah well, it's not worth regretting it now."

"Since we're already committed, we might as well do this properly," Bilbo studies the map. "So we shouldn't approach this the way teams heading towards Bree-land would normally go. I'm beginning to suspect that the orcs definitely know some of our routes."

"That's obvious," Nori grunts. "Given that they've gone to so much trouble to set up the honey trap with Esme and Lobelia as their unwitting messengers." 

"Should we get a message to Bree, as well? They have a standing militia and no love for the orcs."

"They're not that friendly with Ered Luin."

"They're friendly enough to hobbits - I've been there a few times." 

"Friendly to passers-by, aye. But I doubt they'll be that interested in getting involved in a war on their lands, particularly over nothing that they can relate to," Nori grunts. "There's no treaty between Bree-land and Ered Luin, and the lives of Men are short. They're intractable and often shallow. You won't be able to persuade them to spend their short lives on a dwarven grudge. In fact, I've heard that some of them are even orc sympathisers-"

"Surely not," Bilbo says, disgusted. "I can't imagine such a thing."

"Oh aye," Nori snorts. "But I wouldn't put it beyond some of them. They'll sell their own mothers to the orc if it'll give them coin. Let's avoid Bree altogether. We can circle in on this end. Hide our tracks with the stream." 

They work out a careful route, skirting all known orc patrol paths - that's probably the safest, and a few alternatives, and then as Nori's settling back with a yawn, satisfied enough to turn in for the night, he frowns at Bilbo's neck. "New pin? Funny design."

"It's a present," Bilbo touches the brooch, a little self-consciously. He's quite put Bofur at the back of his mind through all the planning, and now he feels a touch guilty about it all. He's worried. Despite the fact that it's true that dwarves do tend to all become familiar with some manner of weapons training - even Ori - he's not sure how _good_ Bofur is with it, or even-

"It's made by Bofur, isn't it?" Nori asks, then he smirks when Bilbo blinks at him in surprise. "Lucky guess. Don't think that I'm not aware of your trips to his shop, Bilbo."

"Mother used to complain about how terribly nosy you were at the best of times," Bilbo says dryly. "I think she said that you used to harass Father most shamelessly."

"Well, of course I did," Nori grunts. "Your mum and I had just gotten into the idea of setting up the Guild, and we were starting to do right well for ourselves. Your pa might have been rich back in the Shire but he was just a poor grocer's assistant over in Ered Luin, and I wanted t'be sure of him."

"She could have taken care of herself."

"Oh aye," Nori shrugs. "But it was a matter of being friends - at least, among us dwarf-folk. _Dori_ asked Bombur some questions of his own, even. He liked your mum too," Nori adds, naming his oldest brother. 

Dori had never been involved with Guild business, as far as Bilbo was aware - running a small textiles business of his own - but just like Ori, that didn't mean that he was never involved with the Guild's members, himself. It was Dori who tended to be called over to treat some of the minor scrapes or injuries that tended to be racked up over the course of their work, usually scolding the recipient for not being 'careful enough' all the way. Bilbo himself had been a semi-willing victim to Dori's ministrations on a handful of occasions. 

"Oh, I see," Bilbo says, and grins. Belladonna Took had passed away years ago, when Bilbo had still been barely out of being a hobbitling, with Bungo Baggins not long to follow: the grief has long faded, leaving only warmth in its wake. Nori's family - and the Guild - have been his family for much of his life.

"Bofur's honest as they come," Nori doesn't look willing to give up the topic. "But he's not exactly-"

"Oh come on, Nori," Bilbo interrupts, with a laugh. "I might have expected this chat from Dori, but not _you_. He's _fine_. His brother's my _landlord_ , for Yavanna's sake. They're not prejudiced."

"Aye, well," Nori shrugs. "It's one thing to do trade with a Burglar, but courting's another thing altogether. You should know. The Baggins half of your family was never too pleased with what your mum did. Some of them still ain't. D'you want to go through the same thing that your parents did?" 

"They came around in the end," Bilbo points out, growing a little annoyed, despite himself, about the seemingly constant badgering recently over this topic: first from Primula and Esme, and now _Nori_ , of all people. 

The Baggins clan had always been conservative, and in the early days of the Guild, its work had been a byword for irresponsible risk-taking. _Burglars_ , they had been called then - contemptuously, pityingly. The Guild's proud of the word now: they've taken it and owned it. "After all the efforts she made to create a respectable profession out of being part of the Guild." 

"You people and your strange aversion to the idea of 'adventures'," Nori snorts. "Oh, don't make that face at me, Bilbo Baggins. Fine. You're as stubborn as your mum and I can't shift you if your mind's made up, I know that much. Go to sleep. I've said my piece and I won't say it again."

Bilbo obligingly beds down for the night, but Nori's words, despite his own conviction when he had been talking to the dwarf - stick fast, and it's a long while before he finally manages to drift off to sleep.

VIII.

They manage to cross over into Bree-land with little incident, although the orc seem to have doubled their patrols. Once, Nori sends off one of the ravens, which returns near nightfall with an update. Thorin and Frerin have set off from Ered Luin with their army.

Nori is solemn and monosyllabic through the night, evidently unhappy. Bilbo nearly wishes that he could understand, but just like Esme and Primula, his mind shies away from making a calculated risk - one life against many - about the very thought of the possible necessity of giving up on a dwarf just so that other lives might not waste themselves in the effort. It's a hard decision to make, and Bilbo's desperately glad that it isn't his to ponder more than abstractly.

At least, not yet.

They're a day or so away from the encampment when their plans hit the first upset. Primula and Esme had been scouting ahead - they had been taking it in turns, partly to keep in practice and partly to make sure nobody was too tired out by the time they really had to get down to business - and Primula had returned alone, flushed and excited.

They had left their ponies behind in a ruined old hamlet hours before. The beasts were well trained - they'll stay quiet where they were, scattering only if orcs and goblins came upon them - and there was plenty of grass. Primula hops down into the dried creek that Nori and Bilbo were picking their way through, grinning hugely, her voice kept low. "We caught someone suspicious, we did! Esme's keeping an eye on him. I came back to fetch you both. We should question him. See what he knows about the camp!"

" _Caught_ someone?" Nori repeats incredulously, "What, an orc?"

"And you left Esme alone with it?" Bilbo demands, horrified. 

"No! No! A Man. We caught a Man! A strange one, too! Wandering around by himself, being right suspicious-"

"Rangers wander these woods," Nori interrupts, frowning quickly. "If you disturbed one of them-"

"T'was no ranger," Primula says stoutly, "I've met rangers before, in Bree-land. But it - he - was no Bree-lander either, or I'm a hedgehog! You had better come and take a look at him." 

The Man whom Esme and Primula had 'caught' is the strangest Man whom Bilbo had ever seen. Bilbo had been down to Bree on mid-haul trips before, of course, and he had also visited the fisher towns now and then, and seen the occasional Man in Ered Luin on trader business, but none of them had looked like this. 

The Man is sitting on a tree root, holding on to a long staff, and he seems amused rather than frightened or annoyed. He is a very old Man, judging from his long and unkempt gray and white beard, and he is dressed in a frightfully faded, dusty robe and hat that had once probably have been a robin's egg blue and was now a discoloured shade, closer to the colour of his beard. His hat is bent at several angles, but was, at some point in its sorry, patched life, probably an odd conical shape. He also has a sheathed longsword belted to his hip, and his fingers are long, knobbly and spidery under his frayed sleeves. The Man has bright eyes under his bushy eyebrows, a long nose, and a whiskery smile that broadens at their approach. Esme has her bolter pointed right at him, but he doesn't seem too troubled, even though a bolt has clearly already been fired, into the trunk of the tree right next to the Man.

Nori makes a sound of irritation, stopping short in his tracks and sheathing his blade. "Oh, for _Mahal's sake_ , the two of you! Sheathe your weapons. Don't you know whom you've disturbed?" Ignoring the looks of surprise on the hobbits' faces, he turns to the Man with a respectful air that only adds to Bilbo's shock. Nori had never assumed such a sentiment even around Thorin - or anyone else, to Bilbo's experience. "I hope you weren't too troubled, Master Wizard. My two friends here are young and ignorant creatures."

"Oh, it was an honest mistake," the Wizard says good-humouredly, even as Bilbo and the rest stare at him with open curiosity. A Wizard! He had heard of the like, of course - they had featured now and then in the bedside tales his mum had told him when he was a hobbitling - but he had never seen one in the flesh, so to speak. "I haven't been to Ered Luin in several decades."

"He's a _Wizard_?" Esme squeaks, finding her voice. "Why, I expected, well, I expected Wizards to be more... _grand_."

"I didn't think that a Wizard could have been ambushed by the likes of us," Primula agrees, then she blushes brightly. "That is to say-"

The Wizard arches whiskery brows, even as Nori glares pointedly at both hobbits and then adds, with a touch of asperity, "This one's a Took. Esme Took. That one over there is Primula Brandybuck, and this is Bilbo Baggins. My name's Nori."

"I am known as Gandalf," the Wizard notes genially, amused and not offended in the least. "I should have guessed at the Took, and the Brandybuck, but it surprises me to find a Baggins all the way out here in the wild. Have things changed so much over the years?" 

Bilbo blinks, even as Primula makes a soft gasp, but Nori adds, dryly, "He's half Took, at the least. His mum's Belladonna Took."

"Ah, Belladonna!" Gandalf looks at Bilbo with new interest. "I've met your mother before, in Bree. However is she faring?"

"She's years gone from this world, sir," Bilbo replies politely. Did _everyone_ know his mum? "And if you would pardon me mentioning, she never did mention you before."

"Hum! I'm sorry to hear that. She was a very formidable hobbit. As to the way we had met, it was over a small matter, quite a trifle." Gandalf's eyes twinkle, however, indicating that whatever it was had likely not been a trifle in the least, and was probably one of Belladonna's great many, mostly improbable adventures before she had settled down to be a mother. More or less. "Well then, perhaps this is fate. I am very pleased to meet all of you." 

"Were you on your way to Ered Luin?" Nori asks, curious. "You'll have just missed the King, but you might run into the army along the way. Thorin will be right pleased to have you along, if that's where you are headed. You see-"

"Oh yes, I'm quite aware about Thráin," Gandalf sighs. "In fact, I was considering heading towards Ered Luin to speak to Thorin about it, just before I encountered Esme and Primula. I'm glad to see that matters have already proceeded beyond this necessity. A bad business all round, it is."

"So it _is_ Thráin," Bilbo interjects, with a glance at Nori, who ignores him.

"Indeed. And he has one of the Rings." Gandalf nods. "It's imperative that he - and the Ring - are extracted from orcish hands." 

Nori's expression contorts briefly, then he exhales, long and slow. "But-"

"There are forces at work here, Nori. That Ring can't be allowed to be left in orc possession, and worse - those orcs in that camp are waiting to hand over Thráin and the Ring to another, one far more dangerous than any orc in this part of the world."

"Waiting!" Esme repeats, with a quick look to Nori, but Nori's already frowning.

"So it wasn't a honey trap? We truly blundered into some sort of - some sort of _other_ orc plan?"

"Why yes," Gandalf seems a little surprised that Nori had even asked. "Azog, the Pale Orc, ruler of Moria - the old dwarven kingdom once known as Khazad-dûm - has come westwards. He and his orcs are on the move as we speak, riding on their wargs. He wants that Ring for himself."

"Why? What can it do?" Nori demands. "It's just a ring-"

"In this world, there are a few Rings of Power, Nori of Ered Luin," Gandalf interrupts, somewhat impatiently. "Once, a war over the greatest of them sundered the earth. But for your immediate reference, the Elves have been so successful in holding their territories firm against the increasing orc incursions in a great part because they too, hold Rings of power."

"So we could... use this Ring?" Nori asks, doubtfully. "Defend Ered Luin with it? Why hasn't Thráin used it to escape?"

"It can't be used in the way that you're thinking of, Nori," Gandalf says, sadly. "Only the Elven Rings remain uncorrupted. But the Dwarven Rings do have power, of a kind, and I do not wish to find out how much influence such a thing could pass to Azog. Middle Earth nearly did not survive the last massive orc incursion over the lands. I seek to prevent a second such calamity." 

Nori glares at his feet, even as Bilbo, Primula and Esme exchange glances, then finally, Nori sighs. "Fine. I'll send Thorin a message via raven so that he's updated on the situation as quickly as possible. Esme and I will spy out the land in the meantime. Bilbo, you take Primula and find Thorin. Guide the army here." 

Bilbo looks quickly over at Nori. The day seems full of surprises. Nori is normally a notoriously stubborn dwarf, for all that he's often complained about the mule-headedness of Belladonna and Bilbo - and Bilbo had thought that Nori would be stubborn over the matter of Thráin until the bitter and reluctant end. And yet, here, at the blithe say-so of the Wizard, he has immediately changed his tune, and without apparent rancour or subterfuge. It's startling, and Bilbo looks at the Wizard with new respect. It's a thought that's evidently mirrored on the equally thoughtful expressions that Esme and Primula are wearing.

"On the contrary," Gandalf disagrees, "By all means, send a raven. But if matters could perhaps be resolved by subtlety, that might be better for the security of Ered Luin. The strength of Ered Luin should be preserved for other matters, I believe."

"Ah, 'subtlety'." Nori brightens up at last. "I do like that word." He murmurs to his raven for a while, then it inclines its head and takes off, up into the sky. At a gesture, and to Bilbo's relief, the raven on Bilbo's shoulder hops over with a flap of its wings to Nori's. "Right, then, Master Wizard, what's your plan?"


	5. Chapter 5

IX.

Despite Bilbo's concern that Gandalf, Wizard or not, might prove as much as a hindrance out in the field as the Princess, he was soundly and pleasantly mistaken. The Man didn't climb trees to hide when orcs approached, but Gandalf had a strange way of being able to fade absolutely into the background, until unless one knew what one was looking at, he became less like a Man and more like a vague composite of a Man, here a hint of some shadow against tree bark, there a thick shadow that might be a sleeve.

They rested for the night in an old human ruin of a tavern which had no orc spoor about it for a mile: probably safe enough. The boards were rotted and thick with dust, and even the hobbits tread carefully, stepping over long-overturned stools, broken glass, musty hay and abandoned cobwebs. Primula briefly brushed down a fallen sign, propped against a smashed table - there was the faded painting of what looked like a green serpent, or a dragon, and lettering that had long been scratched illegible by time. 

The halfway houses and taverns that had once littered the trade routes between Bree-land and the Shire and the fisher towns beyond had also fallen to the orcish push that had sacked the homeland of his kind. Bilbo glanced up sharply at a tinkling sound, but it was Nori, rooting dispiritedly through old cabinets, then giving up. The tavern had probably long been picked over by survivors and scavengers. 

"We still can't risk a fire," Nori decides, even as Gandalf rights a stool near the wall and settles into it comfortably. "But safe as we might be here, we should set a watch roster. Bilbo, you and Prim first. Then it'll be me and Esme." He glances briefly at Gandalf, then decides not to trouble the Wizard. "Try to get as much rest as you can."

"We're not attacking the encampment?" Esme pipes up, doubtfully. 

"No, of course not," Nori says, with some irritation. "Didn't you understand the Plan? We'll be scoping out the grounds for a while yet. Azog's still some distance away. We have time. Once we fully understand the orcish routines, maybe we'll be able to see a way around it. We can't just go barging all the way in - it'll take an army to do that."

Gandalf's plan had indeed not been very much of a plan at all, to Nori's open disappointment, and perhaps betrayed how the Wizards very likely didn't think in terms of tiny details: or, more likely, were content to allow mortal folk to determine them, acting merely as catalysts and guides. They would watch the orcish camp and try to find a way to free Thráin and recover the Ring. 

"I suppose," Primula says doubtfully later, when they're perched quietly on the roof of the abandoned tavern, hiding next to the chimney stack, "That we could disguise ourselves as goblins and get into the camp that way. Ortho's done it before, to get out of a tight spot."

"Even assuming that it works," Bilbo frowns, "How are we going to explain moving the prime prisoner?"

"Maybe if Nori and Gandalf create some sort of distraction." Primula doesn't sound too convinced, though. Besides, if Thráin was injured or incapacitated, three hobbits would be hard pressed carrying or manoeuvring him out of an orc camp, even if they were unimpeded. Dwarves tended to be heavy creatures, densely made by their Creators. 

"Or we could involve the Rangers, perhaps." Bilbo didn't really think that would solve anything, either. The Rangers tended to be an odd sort of folk: they kept to themselves and although never hostile, were usually never particularly friendly, either. Not to mention that they usually kept solitary existences. One or two Rangers wouldn't quite matter very much as a whole. 

"Or drive down the spiders from Hobbiton." This is an even further fetched idea, and Primula smiles awkwardly even as she speaks it. "Ah, well. Something will come up!" 

Bilbo wishes that he shared her optimism. "The only good thing I can think of about all of this is that the orc 'encampment' had none of the - well, no fortifications whatsoever." That much had been obvious even from their spyglass surveillance, hidden in the safety of the woods. The orcs hadn't bothered with ditches, walls or watchtowers - one could enter the camp from any direction, possibly even without challenge, if disguised.

"Didn't look like a honey trap," Primula nods. They hadn't found evidence of any hidden devices or traps around the camp, either. "I still think that disguise is the best." 

Bilbo sighs. "We'll see. Perhaps you're right. We could ambush one of the patrols tomorrow. Kit ourselves out." He manages to hide a shudder of disgust. Goblin kits and armour are as foul as the creatures themselves: Poor Ortho had caught the most frightful skin rash for a week after his desperate disguise. Oh dear! Still, it wouldn't do to be squeamish, not when they've come so far. 

He thinks and thinks and only manages to give himself a mild headache by the time their watch is over, and they skim down the side of the tavern and let themselves nimbly in through a window. To his surprise, he finds Nori speaking quietly with Gandalf, and the dwarf nods and steps over when they come in, heading to the corner to rouse Esme. 

"Did you sleep?" Bilbo asks, uncertain.

"Yes I did," Nori grunts. "I'm not so green or out of practice that I'll face a whole day without sleep, thank you, Master Burglar." He does look worn, though, and a little tired, and not for the first time Bilbo wonders how old Nori really is. It's hard to tell, for dwarves, and hobbits have always found it a little rude to ask outright. 

Worry and the headache prevent him from just curling up to sleep when Nori and Esme climb up to the roof, and Bilbo finds himself edging over to Gandalf. Do Wizards sleep? There was nothing in Gandalf that seemed to express weariness. Maybe he was only Man-shaped out of convenience.

"Yes?" Gandalf asked mildly, when Bilbo settled on the stool that Nori had vacated. 

"Has Nori made more plans, yet?"

Gandalf sighs. "It's quite a thorny problem, hum! Perhaps some sleight of hand will do best. But enough of that. A solution will present itself, in time. Tell me about Ered Luin." 

"Well," Bilbo notes, surprised, "What do you want to know about Ered Luin?"

"At the very least, how are the Shirefolk doing?" Gandalf asks, and he does seem genuinely curious. "I was always rather fond of your kind. It was a great pity that the orcs suddenly pushed west as they did." 

"Was it a surprise?" Bilbo asks, suddenly a little doubtful. "Did you know?"

"Not until it had happened, no. I was occupied elsewhere in the lands of Man and only came to know of it after it was too late, or I would have tried to ride ahead of it to warn the Shire." Gandalf sighs. "I did investigate the eruption afterwards, through a great deal of personal risk. The orcs that pushed and settled the lands westwards were originally from Moria."

"They had a disagreement? With Azog?"

"No, no. Azog is not the only Lord of Moria." Gandalf pulls absently at his beard. "There is another. One of the great monsters of a different age, which had been slumbering deep in the earth when the original dwarven occupants had accidentally woken it. It had driven them out, and then had gone back into an uneasy slumber."

"It drove out the orcs?"

"Only to the uppermost levels, where it could not quite fit. It roams the lower, larger levels, destroying any creature it can get its claws on, I believe - I very nearly did not escape Moria with my life. So there was a population overflow, and the orcs that were displaced left to find holdings elsewhere." 

"What woke up that... thing? Whatever it was?" 

"I do not know. Perhaps an orc that had ventured to far. Perhaps something else." Gandalf blows out another deep sigh. "It will be a problem, but for the moment, thankfully, it is not _our_ problem." 

Bilbo shudders. He can't quite imagine a monster horrible enough to drive out an entire orc army. Something that even a Wizard did not seem to dare name. It's a dark thought to carry into his sleep, and his dreams are fitful and unhappy.

X.

In the morning, to their initial dismay, they find that Thráin is gone. "Gone!" Gandalf frowns, when Esme and Bilbo retreat away from the outlying orc patrols with the news. "Are you certain!"

Nori is already climbing up the nearest tall tree, the raven on his shoulder winging away. They wait about for an hour, uncomfortably, then Nori climbs back down. "There's a covered wagon guarded with two dozen orcs and goblins, heavily armed, going east. It's pulled by oxen. Probably the same two damned animals that Daisy and Paladin tried to salvage." 

The raven returns after half an hour, perching on Nori's shoulder. "I could not get too close," it begins by saying, "But I did overhear that the wagon is headed for Azog. They did exclaim overmuch over news of Thorin's army."

"It must be Thráin," Nori grumbles. "Blast." 

"Actually, this is wonderful news," Gandalf disagrees. "Now we are reduced from having to face an entire encampment to just a couple of dozen orcs and goblins."

"'Just' a couple of dozen, he says," Nori notes dryly. "Well, there's nothing to it. We're going to have to try. We'll watch the route. Maybe there's a way to ambush it." 

"Oxen are slow, they won't run anywhere in a hurry," Primula disagrees.

"Unless," Bilbo starts, then he glances at Esme, who slowly grins.

"Unless!" she agrees. 

"Oh," Nori catches on instantly. "This is about that blasted prank you Took brats pulled when you were hobbitlings, back over on that Durin's Day festival." 

"What?" Gandalf asks, a trifle annoyed at being left out, but he turns quickly back to good humour when a highly condensed version of the prank is told to him and they make plans hurriedly. 

Finding goblin scouts out in the woods isn't difficult, though capturing just three in their sizes turns out to be tricky. In the end, Gandalf has to provide a distraction, allowing the goblin scout team to chase him, jeering, up a dry gully, where Nori and the rest ambush them with arrows and bolters. 

They pick the filthy armour off three corpses and the hobbits outfit themselves in them. It's a little too large for them, but it's certainly far too small for Nori, who shuffles about looking irritable and muttering to himself. He had objected roundly to not being included in the most difficult part of their plan - or what he saw as the most difficult - at least at first - was was still grumbling over it all as he helps adjust buckles and smear soot and black filth over any exposed bits of skin to hide them. 

The armour stinks most terribly, and creaks quite loudly, and Bilbo feels quite exposed as they run through the woods, the poorly made gear squeaking and clanking, until they catch swiftly up with the oxen patrol. The poor beasts are near mad with fear as it is, and are being forced along in march with sticks and prods. Bilbo makes a mental, silent apology to the beasts for the further indignity they'll likely be forced to face in the near future, even as he, Esme and Primula shamble out of the woods, imitating a goblin's gait as they join up at the back of the patrol.

As they had hoped, none of the orcs pay them the least attention, and the other goblins are just busy trying to stay out from underfoot of the large orcs. The orcs are in a bad mood, not hesitating to kick away any goblins that come into range, and they keep throwing glances away into the woods and to the horizons. 

Esme quietly prods Bilbo and gestures just before they split up. Far into the distance, beyond the razed farmlands and woods, nearly to the far away foothills, Bilbo can see perhaps a few, fast moving black specks that seem to indicate that their time is almost up, Yavanna save them.

Offering the various Valar a silent prayer, Bilbo fumbles absently for the peeled gingerroot in his pockets that they had found in the morning in the abandoned back garden of the tavern. He won't be the one to execute that part of the plan, but he has a piece just in case. The hobbits pick their way unobtrusively through the patrols, sometimes skittering back, sometimes jabbering to themselves as the other goblins did, ducking under the slow moving wheels of the wagon cart and under it. The wagon is an old farmer's cart, judging by the make, and a thick cloth covers it, under which there's the occasional whimper and groan that doesn't sound orcish in the least. 

It had to be Thráin!

At the signal - when he can see Esme getting into position near the oxen - Bilbo shambles over to the cart and climbs on, as though tired. He's instantly plucked off, as he thought, and the orc guard snarls at him and tosses him heavily aside, even as the orc cart driver, distracted, glances over at him. He rolls with the fall, scrambling to his feet and cringing as though chastened, backing off, preparing to get to the back of the patrol as they had agreed - only for an orc to grab him by the scruff of the neck and haul him up. 

Oh dear. 

The costume doesn't hold up to close scrutiny, but Bilbo sees his mistake - the fall had scraped away the dirt over one of hands, revealing very pink, very Hobbitish fingers. 

The orc bares yellowed teeth, about to bellow - then it staggers back with a look of utter surprise, stumbling. Bilbo is dropped again and heavily onto the ground, scrambling back hastily - a black arrow is protruding from the orc's temple. Nori has saved him.

Another arrow catches an orc, then another, but then the orcs hastily close ranks, bellowing threats. They'll be able to tell very soon that they're only facing a lone archer - but Bilbo, Esme and Primula are already scattering, squeaking and shrilling as though in panic, running into the woods. The orcs ignore them, turning to face the new threat instead - and then there's a sudden outraged and furious lowing from the oxen, which shake their heads, dig in their hooves, and then abruptly charge wildly forward, trampling the orcs in their path. The orc driver shrieks and roars and yanks on the ropes and traces to no avail - then he slumps over dead where he sits, an arrow in the back of his skull. 

The oxen team is racing wildly straight, into where the woods curve back out into the last stretch of the foothills. Bilbo runs after it, peeling off the ugly and heavy armour as he goes, and cresting a rise, is just in time to see the oxen team run straight into the tree line, still bellowing in outrage. Behind them, the orcs are running too, shouting, with their longer strides, but the hobbits are fast when they want to be, and they eventually catch up to where Gandalf is slicing the traces off the oxen, the gingerroot already removed from their rumps. The beasts look unnaturally calmed - more magic, perhaps - and Gandalf gestures urgently to them as he moves over to the overturned cart.

Thráin is lying where he had fallen, his single eye closed, and for a horrific moment Bilbo thought that they had killed the poor dwarf after all - but then he shifts and murmurs, resisting blindly for a moment as Gandalf drags him up to his feet, then allowing them to lead him over to the oxen. He's dressed in rags that are filthy and horrifically stained, and doesn't seem to register who they are at all, whimpering when he's pulled over the closest ox, Primula climbing on behind him and Esme taking the horns. 

"No Ring," Gandalf frowns, looking around hurriedly, even as Bilbo upturns the black cloth. "Thráin, where is the Ring? Thráin!" He repeats the question in Khuzdul, to Bilbo's surprise, but Thráin seems insensate, slumped where he lies over the ox. Gandalf mutters something to himself, then he stamps over and whispers something into the ox's ear, and the ox takes off into the trees. 

They can't search the cart for long - Bilbo slips into the deeper forest as he hears the orcs approach. For all of the afternoon, he and Nori harry them in the woods, allowing themselves to be seen and chased here and there, shooting at them whenever possible, until eventually the orcs give up pursuit, shrieking curses at them as they retreat. 

Bilbo is in good cheer as they settle down in a natural cave for the night. Thráin still seems ill, though he's stopped with his groans and whimpers when Gandalf had touched his forehead and murmured something over him, curled and asleep against the wall. "He'll recover - physically," Gandalf says at last, with a grunt. The raven had been sent off to tell Thorin the good news.

"Only physically?" Nori demands. 

"His mind is broken. I'm not entirely certain whether it was at the hands of the orc. Either way." Gandalf sighs. "That is a matter of healing beyond myself. Perhaps the Elves might have a solution, though I doubt it. The problem remains, regardless, that we do _not_ have the Ring."

"We've got half of what we came for," Nori grunts. "Shouldn't we be happy?"

"Well then," Gandalf notes crossly, "Forgive me if I sound callous, Nori, but I would much rather have recovered the Ring of power than Thráin, if I had to choose it at all! We might have to commit Thorin's forces after all."

"It's probably still in the encampment," Esme pipes up, doubtfully. "I'm not sure, but while we were at the patrol, I think I heard that this was a 'half' payment. Maybe it was a goodwill payment, Thráin. To Azog, or whoever it is."

"We might be able to sneak into the camp. Maybe we shouldn't have thrown away our disguises." Bilbo murmurs, a touch unhappily. He could already feel a bit of a itch coming on.

"No, it'll be too dangerous. They'll probably be doubly checking for imposters now." Nori sighs. "I suppose there's nothing we can do. Prim, Esme, get Thráin back to Ered Luin for medical care. Bilbo, go and find Thorin's army. Get Gandalf to him and tell him what's happened. I'll stay here and monitor the situation. Blast!"

"Be careful," Bilbo says doubtfully. "Are you sure-"

"Send up a couple of hobbits to replace you. I'll kip back for a while out of range." Nori grunts. "Try and find out where that damned piece of jewellery went."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a couple of friends coming over to stay for the next week, so I'm not sure whether I can keep up the updates. Probably not. ;3 thanks for reading so far!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE: WARNING FOR** : Minor Canon Character Death

XI.

Gandalf's mood improves only when they're within sight of the very orderly dwarven encampment. Temporary fortifications had been set up with fresh-cut tree logs, and dwarves are even industriously digging a moat as they approach. Bilbo can't see why all this fuss is needed, but he decides that it's probably cultural in nature.

One of the Guild scouts had spotted them long before they had been in sight of the camp, and news of their arrival preceded them. Bilbo's too tired to feel embarrassed over all the cheering as they're led into the camp, and he's still trying not to yawn as they get past all the neat rows of pitched blue tents towards the large central tent.

Thorin greets them with a broad grin that looks positively odd on the King's face, in Bilbo's opinion, but it's Prince Frerin who insists on enthusiastically shaking first Gandalf's hand, then Bilbo's, before asking excitedly after his father. 

"He is unwell and will be unwell for a very long time," Gandalf says, hunched in the tent that was too small for him, removing his hat before it snags on the ceiling. "I'm sorry that I cannot give you better news than that." 

He looks tired then, and old, and Bilbo mentally revises his original opinion that the Wizards are unsentimental. Rather, he thinks, they are very sentimental indeed, but in broad sweeps of time, in the totality of life itself. Gandalf is not so much concerned over one dwarf but over all dwarves, all hobbits, all of Man and the Elves. It is a heart too great, perhaps, to be sentimental over just one thread in a very vast and changing tapestry.

"No matter. You have all done a very great deed. Your small numbers and cunning, against the orc." Thorin's tone is warm, his bearing imperious: now Bilbo feels rather embarrassed, and tries to stand his ground instead of shuffling over to Gandalf. "And yet you say that we should continue to war?"

"Aye. For the Ring was not on your father's person." Gandalf glances briefly at the map. "Azog has come - the Pale Orc, of Moria. He must not be allowed to take the Ring."

"Nor will he," Frerin agrees fiercely. "We will take it back. Rout him from these lands!"

Thorin sighs, glancing over the table. Balin is the only other dwarf present, and he looks faintly worried, but gives no counsel. Finally, Thorin adds, "Is this your counsel then, Gandalf? To send my dwarves into war, over a ring?"

"It is not like your race to hesitate over wars wrought of grudges," Gandalf notes, watching Thorin keenly.

"Perhaps. Once, the dwarves were many. We were one of the strongest and most numerous races on Middle Earth, the architects of some of its greatest wonders." Thorin runs a hand wearily over the table. "But now we are few, and many of our wondrous cities have been taken from us, and we have not even the might to retake them. It is my opinion then that we must conserve our strength. Preserve what we have. Build our strength and eventually-"

"And eventually what, Thorin?" Gandalf asks, if gently. "The way into Erebor is shut. Had I possession of a... key to a back door, perhaps, or a map, I would say - certainly. Build your strength. Return, and drive out the dragon within it, take back your old home. You think perhaps your father's ring matters little. I think that you do not know what the ring _is_."

"What is it, then?" Thorin demands, a touch belligerently. "I have seen this ring that you speak of. It was one of Grandfather's favourites. One of his many rings, and the only one he refused to sell, when we bought supplies and passage for our people to the Blue Mountain. He was always wearing it, but it is not like the Ar-" Thorin cuts himself off abruptly. "It is just a ring. A plain ring."

Gandalf looks briefly indecisive, then he exhales. "Are you aware of the story of Sauron and the Rings, Thorin?"

Thorin looks puzzled, and Frerin seems openly confused, but it is Balin who gasps. "Are you saying that - that ring, was-"

"Exactly."

"But it was said that the Rings are cursed," Balin adds, troubled. "Gold fever was-"

"One moment," Thorin interrupts sharply, glancing quickly over to Bilbo, then his tone turns formal. "Master Baggins, thank you for your service to Ered Luin. May I suggest that you get some rest." 

It's a polite but clear dismissal, and briefly, Bilbo almost objects, but he nods instead, mumbling something, and scoots out of the tent gratefully. Outside, he nearly walks right into poor Magnolia, and she agrees to send off two scouts, all the while helping him into her tent and bustling about finding a spare bedroll. 

Bilbo's still too high on adrenaline to sleep, so they update each other on what's happened over dinner - some sort of stew, made by Guild hobbits. They have their own stores, and spirits seem to be high, especially now that the news of the semi-successful rescue is spreading around the camp and no doubt getting more unbelievable by the minute. So far there haven't been any major injuries among the scouts, though as Nori predicted, the orcs have harassed the army all the way down to the lowlands. 

They're discussing patrols when Magnolia lifts her chin sharply, then grins, just as Bofur sits cross-legged on the grass beside Bilbo, if at a respectable distance. Bilbo stares for a moment, rather speechless, then Magnolia says, in a syrupy tone, "I guess I should attend to the rosters. Good night, Mister Baggins, Master Bofur." 

Bilbo contemplates sourly the nature of nothing ever being secret, particularly once a Took learns about it, and forces a smile. "Is something the matter... why," he adds, unhappily, "You're injured!" 

"Aw, this?" Bofur holds up his bandaged left arm briefly. "Was just a scratch. Got hit by an arrow, pretty close up. Tip got through the bracer." He laughs, even as the last of Bilbo's good mood drains away. "Probably should have had a mail pair made instead of wearing my usual gear." 

"Well _yes_ ," Bilbo says evenly. Bofur is wearing a mail shirt, under his vest, but that seems about the extent of the toymaker's wardrobe differences. "Maybe a helmet and shoulder plates."

"Now why would I want to go into battle looking like a turtle, eh?" Bofur grins, seemingly unconcerned by Bilbo's expression. "It doesn't even hurt. If Bombur hadn't insisted on the bandage it probably wouldn't even have needed to be wrapped up. I hear you've rescued the king!"

"What-" Bilbo blinks, about to say that Thorin looked all very well where he was, then adds, "Oh. Well. I don't know if he'll be king."

"He's alive, isn't he?" Bofur hesitates, then raises his eyebrows. "Was he all right?"

"Um," Bilbo hesitates, for a moment, "He'll need some time to recover," he says finally, uncertain of what he should be able to say. Casting doubt on Thráin's constitution feels terribly unlucky. "Does it matter?"

"S'pose not." Bofur shrugs. "Even if Thorin has to give it up for now, he'll have his turn again. He's done a good job for quite a while. So we'll be going home now, aye? It's a little disappointing," Bofur adds mischievously, mistaking Bilbo's pause for assent. "We've only run into a few orcs here and there."

"I don't think we'll be going home just yet," Bilbo murmurs, looking around quickly. "It's up to the Wizard and Thorin." 

Bofur looks puzzled, but then he shrugs and seems to accept it. "Maybe it's the grudge. It's as good a reason as any."

"I can't begin to understand your people sometimes," Bilbo notes, grasping on the proffered excuse with relief. "But Ferumbras has agreed to support Thorin to the end, so that's what we'll do." 

"You don't seem to approve," Bofur concludes, with mild surprise.

"Well," Bilbo hedges, "I'm sure if Gandalf believes it is necessary, then it must be. But I don't like it, no." 

"But to show valour in battle... or, like yourself and Master Nori, t'head out and do great deeds-" 

"Esme and Primula and Gandalf helped too," Bilbo finds himself saying automatically, then he blushes a little, trying to sit quietly and enjoy Bofur's admiration, say something _clever_ , perhaps, but in the end, the fussy little part of his soul wins out. "We're not here for the valour, Master Bofur, or... or _glory_ , or anything like that. It's not something that we value. As far as we hobbits are concerned, you dwarves did us a good turn, and we're repaying it."

"Well-" Bofur starts, then he seems to cut himself off, his good-natured face crinkling, then he tilts his head. "You're tellin' me that you - your people - don't value the doin' of great deeds? Courage?"

"Why, I suppose so, in a way, but we also value... good, honest work, from a farmer, or useful things from craftsmen. Who's to say that their work isn't as good for everyone, as a whole? We're not a society very much invested in the idea of 'heroes'," Bilbo elaborates, when Bofur just looks puzzled. 

"I canna' say that I understand," Bofur says finally, though he grins even as he says it. "But I'm trying to." 

It does sound as though... "Master Bofur," Bilbo notes cautiously, "Are you-" 

But then there's a shout, from the back, and Bofur half-turns in his seat, then gets to his feet. It's Bombur, waving from a distance. Bofur looks briefly frustrated, then he smiles again, his slow and mischievous grin, and tips his woolly hat. "Good night, Mister Baggins."

"Good night," Bilbo echoes, and twists absently at his fingers as he watches Bofur amble off. Exhaling, he turns to watch the ebbing fire, and swallows another yawn, struggling to concentrate on the problem at hand, of the battle on the morrow, but he can't.

XII.

The orcs attack first.

One of the scouts sent to Nori had returned in haste with a warning, however, and as such, they're prepared - barely. Bilbo spared only a brief worry for Nori before he's joining in the clamour, urging people to wake up, _wake up_! He's still yawning himself when Magnolia finally pulls him aside for a hushed discussion of tactics.

Bilbo feels a little at a loss. This is his first battle - he was too young to have seen the rout when the Shirefolk was driven to Ered Luin, and the occasional skirmish during jobs doesn't exactly... count. Thankfully, Thorin clearly doesn't intend to leave anything to chance: Glóin turns up in the Guild's section of the encampment, already fully armed. To Bilbo's relief, the Guild's running ranged support, from the trees and from behind the main ranks. He divides their forces, sends Magnolia off with a small team to get to the trees, and organises the rest. 

In a way, he's glad to be busy - there's no space to think, no time to worry about the others, about whether Esme and Primula managed to get back to Ered Luin safely, whether Nori is still all right, whether _Bofur_ would survive the skirmish-

He climbed to the top of a neat pile of crates, briefly cursing the short stature of his race, watching the horizon with a spy glass. Behind him, the other Guild hobbits had also stacked luggage and supplies together to form little vantage points, a small barricade of loosely stacked boxes from which one could more or less shoot at the enemy from behind cover. Bilbo's not certain if the barricade would be useful - surely the orcs wouldn't be so silly as to attack the dwarven fortified camp - but it had been something that the hobbits could do to keep their hands busy. 

Thorin and his brother are at the entrance to the encampment, their weapons in their hands, the dwarven army behind them, waiting. The ranks gleam in the firelight from the torches, as though daring the sun to rise, and Bilbo realizes that he's never really... thought of Ered Luin as a whole city before, not until now. He's always known it to be big, and fairly populous, but now, perched on a stack of crates above its army, he feels the very first, Tookish strands of excitement and awe. 

Then the orcs were upon them.

The first wave of arrows from Bilbo's and Magnolia's team stitched over the charging, black ranks and flicked a few out under the churning feet of the orc and goblin army. Black arrows answered them, and Bilbo ducked hastily behind a crate as he pulls another arrow from the quiver at his hip - then hesitates, with a gasp. 

Behind the ranks of the orc, he sees for a moment a pale-skinned orc, huge and savage, wearing little of the orcish black armour save for armguards, leg guards and plated breeches, seated on a gigantic white warg. The Pale Orc! It waits on its monstrous steed as orcs and mounted orcs on black wargs charge past it towards the dwarves, and it grins, broad and ugly and hateful, like something straight out of a nightmare. 

There's a roar from Thorin that's echoed in an instant by over a thousand throats, and then the dwarves meet the orc in a clash of steel that drowns out battlecries and the hooting shrieks of the goblins. The orcs ignore the sharpened trunks of trees, driving their own kin into the sharpened tips and climbing over still twitching bodies to throw themselves at their hated enemies. 

Bilbo looses an arrow, then another, then more until he's lost count and his fingers ache and the orc are still coming, in a seemingly relentless tide - two armies, he realizes - the one in the encampment, and the one he had seen in the distance, fused to one. The dwarven lines start to buckle under the relentless assault, then just as the first wave of wargs charge over the festooned wall and into the camp, there's a laugh and a shout from Frerin, as he leads an arrowhead of charging dwarves, straight towards the Pale Orc.

There's a cry of "Frerin, wait!" from Thorin, but even as Bilbo tries to see what's happening, he's tumbling - a warg has slammed into the fragile tower of crates that he's perched on with a snarl. Bilbo leaps instinctively, just in time to save himself from a wild swipe from the orc rider, landing on his feet and ducking quickly away from a grab from another orc. He fires the bolter on his wrist point blank into the orc's ribs, the force of the bolt knocking it back several steps, scrabbling in surprise at the bolt in its chest with its dying breath - then he's veering desperately away from the snap of the warg's jaws as it wheels about to get at him.

A dwarven soldier steps in, clashing his battleaxe against his shield once in challenge before charging the warg rider, and Bilbo reloads his bolter awkwardly as he hops aside, firing it into an orc's back before it gets to a Guild hobbit still picking herself out from under a fallen stack of crates, then spinning, knife out, to hamstring a lumbering orc and then get out of the way, allowing another dwarven soldier to finish the job with his axe. 

It's not delicate work after that. He runs out of bolts all too quickly, and it's only Bilbo's small size and relative deftness that keeps him out of the worst of it. The goblins are easy work, but the orcs are too big to lethally injure by himself with ease, and Bilbo tries to concentrate on support, fighting his way over to the Guild caches. The bolts, however, are scattered beside the bodies of the fallen, orc and hobbit and dwarf alike and Bilbo swallows a shudder of horror and grief, scrambling over to check the pulse of the nearest.

A ring of metal behind him makes him whirl, knife held low, but Bofur's already spinning away, the heavy, sharp tip of the mattock burying itself in the crown of the orc's head. He yanks it free with a jerk, and grins briefly at Bilbo. "Best not t'get distracted, Mister Baggins," he offers, before it's a goblin's turn to meet the sharp edge of his mattock. 

"Right," Bilbo shudders again, and mentally kicks himself, "Thank you."

"Thank me later, with a beer," Bofur offers, and then before Bilbo can say anything more he's wading back into the scrum, to where Bombur seems to be blithely laying about him with the long, heavy iron ladle that he uses for cooking with surprising success. 

Bilbo's about to head over to help, but then Magnolia whistles, and he turns sharply to look. She's ahead, perched precariously on a surviving stack of the barricade, back down from the trees, and she's beckoning to him urgently. He darts to her, dodging and rolling through the scrum, just as she leaps off the stack and keeps running, dodging and weaving. Puzzled, he calls out to her, but she ignores him, and it's only when they crest a fallen tent and its struts that he sees what she has seen - and they are too late. 

The Pale Orc, the Lord of Moria, mounted on his warg, bloody to the arms - roaring in triumph. His fisted right hand is upraised - and clenched in its grip is Frerin's bloody head. 

There's a groan of dismay among the dwarves that thrums into fear, and they falter, pushed back into the trap that their encampment's become, but even as the ranks begin to drop back, Thorin snarls in pure fury, cleaving his way towards Azog, who turns to face him, tossing his gruesome trophy contemptuously aside.

"Bilbo!" Magnolia hisses, but Bilbo doesn't need urging any longer - he's running, using every inch of discipline and dexterity that he's ever learned through the years of his life, blindly trying to reach Azog, to _help_ , somehow. 

Magnolia gets there first - she leaps onto a crate, bolter upraised - and the bolt punches into the warg's ribs. It roars, nearly throwing its rider as it stumbles, but even as Magnolia feverishly reloads, she too, staggers, blinking, shocked - a black arrow buried in her throat. Bilbo doesn't scream. A good Burglar is silent. Instead, he gets behind the goblin archer and cuts its throat, then he gets to Magnolia's side even as her body shakes into its death throes. 

No time for sentiment, not yet. He takes the last of her bolts, reloading his bolter. The warg's staggered, but still keeping Thorin at bay with its huge jaws - Bilbo aims, and fires.

This time the bolt goes through - it punches through the warg's temple, and the beast shrieks, jerking and twisting, throwing Azog from its back. An orc takes a swing at Bilbo, preventing him from looking on, and he's back in the fray, hoping that the King's survived - Thorin _must_.

He doesn't feel time as he fights the orc, even as exhaustion swallows the lightness to his feet and numbs his fingers, but then finally - perhaps it had only been minutes, perhaps hours - a cheer runs up the length of the dwarven army, and they push on with renewed ferocity. Grateful for the respite, Bilbo glances up - just in time to watch Thorin giving chase to orcs bearing away Azog, the Pale Orc crying out in pain, one hand severed almost to the elbow. 

Thorin stoops suddenly, and Bilbo tries to get through, afraid that perhaps the King has been wounded - but even as he gets close, Gandalf is there, the wizard's bared bade bloody, his sleeves stained. Thorin seems to have forgotten the battle that is flowing past him, the orcs that are retreating before his eyes. In his filthy, bloodstained fingers there is a bright loop of gold. 

"Thorin," Gandalf says, his voice somehow cutting through the clamour and the shouts and the screams of the wounded. "Thorin, you know about this ring. You know that it cannot be yours to keep. Give it here." 

Thorin stares at the ring for a very long time, then his hand abruptly clenches on it. "No."

"Thorin, the ring poisoned your Grandfather, and his father before it. It poisoned Durin himself-"

" _No_ ," Thorin spits. "My brother has paid in blood for this ring. In blood it is mine. It will remain mine. The ring has been in my family for centuries. It is ours." The glare that Thorin turns on Gandalf blazes with fury and challenge. 

"Thorin," Gandalf tries again, his voice urgent. "The dark power whose foothold on this world has increased - it will increase the corruption in this Ring that you hold. Gold fever may be the least of it all. Give me the Ring, Thorin."

"Or what?" Thorin retorts bitterly. "You'll kill me? My brother lies dead, Gandalf! What worse can be done to me? But if you think that I will willingly give up the last of Durin's heritage to you..." 

Gandalf throws up his hands, with a most furious scowl, then he sighs, and turns to go, stamping away. The orc are already in rout, and the dwarves about him, around _Thorin_ , give them both a careful berth. Bilbo falters in his step, and stops, even as Thorin pockets the ring and turns his attention back to the battle, shouting orders.

"Well," Nori murmurs at his elbow, making Bilbo yelp and jump. "That's a right mistake."

"What?"

"Never decide not to heed the warning of Wizards," Nori says grimly, looking at Thorin's back.

"Thorin's ancestors have borne that Ring for centuries," Bilbo shrugs, tired of maledictions and of violence. He looks Nori over sharply - the Guildmaster is favouring his side, but doesn't seem seriously hurt. "Our work's done here for now, I think. Let's get back home."


	7. Chapter 7

XIII.

Festivities in the Guild are at least as raucous as they are in the rest of Ered Luin, but Bilbo finds that his heart is not quite in it. They had lost brothers and sisters in the skirmish, and as much as Nori had more or less harassed everyone into joining in the city-wide celebrations, Bilbo's thoughts had long turned to dark and quiet corners. He can't stop thinking of Nori's statement - and of Thorin, standing silently amidst the tide of his warriors, lost to everything but the loop of gold in his hand.

"Cheer up!" Primula has to shout to make herself heard, even though she's sitting right next to him. 

Bilbo forces a smile. Primula's dragged a guest over to the Guild festivities - Drogo Baggins grins awkwardly at Bilbo from behind Primula's shoulder, and Bilbo nods at him reassuringly. They're cousins - although Drogo is as Baggins as a Baggins can get, already plump and stolid, still sober, with a solid and respectable job for a hobbit. They are, however, fair friends, despite the occasional tutting of Drogo's parents whenever they think that Bilbo isn't about. 

"Glad to see that you're all right," Drogo tells him, and they drink to that on the best Ered Luin lager. 

"It was a near thing," Bilbo agrees. Primula has a broken wrist, having been briefly trampled on by an orc, nasty brutes, and the Guild isn't without its share of the injuries. 

Bilbo's gotten off with just a few minor bruises and cuts, thank Yavanna. Dori hadn't let off on the opportunity to scold him roundly, though - poor Dori had worked hours on Guild members and was now folded into a comfortable chair in the chamber with a nice, cold beer. 

"How's Bofur?" Primula grins at him cheekily.

"Broken arm. He'll be fine." Bilbo had checked in on Bofur before going to the Guild to take stock of everyone - and had promptly been sucked into the festivities. The toymaker was with his brother and cousin, and had looked openly disappointed when Bilbo had declined an offer to have a pint of beer right away: he had been anxious about everyone else's well-being. 

He hopes that he hadn't made the rejection seem... hurtful. Or had he? Blast.

"Well then, shouldn't you be..." Primula arches her eyebrows significantly, and Bilbo rolls his eyes. 

"The dwarves are having a knees up over at the marketplace," Drogo offers, "With a lot of hobbits too," he adds, more conscientiously. "And everywhere."

Which meant that the streets were probably impossible right now, and- "Go on," Primula urges, with a grin, elbowing Bilbo outrageously despite his arched eyebrow. "If Nori asks, I'll tell him a fib."

"If Nori doesn't see me around, he'll know where I'm at," Bilbo notes dryly, even as there's a terrific belch from the other end of the room, and then little Ori climbs up onto a chair beside Nori, swaying a little, and lets out a belch of his own that's not so much a burp as a roar. The hobbits around him clearly find this so hilarious that some of them fall over while laughing uproariously, and Bilbo grins, even as Dori fusses and tries ineffectively to get Ori to sit down.

"You won't be missed," Primula adds knowingly, following his gaze, and Bilbo snorts. 

"But-"

"But _nothing_ ," Primula giggles, then she starts to hiccup, rather alarmingly, and Bilbo slips away from the table while Drogo's hastily patting her on the back. 

He picks his way over hobbits and dwarves in various stages of intoxication on his way out, and finds his way to the stables rather by accident. The two poor oxen are there, to Bilbo's surprise, and perhaps the Wizard had taken away whatever memory of the trauma and final indignity that the beasts had been through - they seem to be happily going through a trough of carrots and lettuce. Bilbo pats one on its wet nose and heads over to Myrtle's stall, climbing up to perch on the stable door, petting her muzzle when she pushes it into his hands inquiringly. It's quiet in the stable, at least, and he leans against the post, exhaling. 

There's a faint sound of a step at the main entrance, and Bilbo straightens up, only to blink in surprise when Bofur steps into the dim light from the single lantern hung against the wall. He's carrying a small barrel with a couple of tankards balanced on the top somehow, one-handed, and Bilbo laughs as Bofur gets the barrel onto the bench against the wall hung with spare bridles and tacks and screws in a tap, waving off all of Bilbo's offers of help.

The beer is surprisingly cold, richer than the Guild's, with an odd but pleasant honeyed nuttiness to it that Bilbo decides that he likes, after a sip. "Homebrew?" Bilbo asks, after a more appreciative taste.

"My cousin Bifur's," Bofur agrees, with a wink, leaning against the same stable post, albeit from the ground level. "Won't tell us the recipe, but it's a right proper celebratory beer, it is." 

"It's strong."

"If you can handle your poison, it'll put curls on your chest an' more besides," Bofur agrees, with one of his mischievous grins, and Bilbo chuckles - they knock tankards and some of the froth gets all over Bilbo's knuckles but it feels like time's slowing, like nothing's more real or important than now. He's surprised that he's even coherent: he's sure that his ears are reddening fast.

"How's your arm?"

"It hasn't magically healed in the last few hours," Bofur grins when Bilbo blushes a little more. "It be _fine_ , Mister Baggins. Bifur got a bit of metal wedged right into his head and he was still trying to get into the drink 'fore I left. Dwarves are a hardy folk."

"Wedged into his _head_?" Bilbo repeats, horrified. He doesn't quite have much of a memory of Bifur - he's only met the dwarf once or twice in the marketplace, usually in Bofur's or Bombur's company. 

"Oh aye," Bofur shrugs. "It don't seem t'have done him any real damage. Wee bit dizzy here and there is all and he's havin' some trouble with his Westron. Seems a little confused about some small things but it'll clear right up. Word about the street is that we've got off a mighty victory!"

"Ah, I suppose so," Bilbo manages a smile in the face of Bofur's cheer.

"So I'm thinking that I'm a wee bit curious why you're sitting all by your lonesome out here, while the party's in there," Bofur notes, and there's real concern in his eyes, even through his grin. "Surely you're the hero of the day, especially here in your Guild-"

"And I'm wondering how you knew where to come and find me," Bilbo counters, uncertain about sharing his misgivings. Away from the rush and urgency of battle, away from the celebrations and alone with his thoughts in the warm semi-dark, his doubts about Thorin now seem vague and silly.

"Got a runner from Nori some time back. He said that you would probably be a-sneaking out to the stables eventually to stew in your thoughts, and told me to bring some beer. Seemed like a good suggestion t'me." Bofur raised his tankard. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"No, you were right on time," Bilbo grins, "In fact, I would've suspected that you were waiting outside for me to come in, seeing how good your timing was, Master Bofur."

"Ah, well," Bofur, to Bilbo's amusement and delight, actually reddens a little himself, "I might have decided t'let the beer sit a while first, on the outside. Makes it taste better, it does." 

"I'm never going to understand this," the laugh takes Bilbo by surprise, this time - he nearly coughs into his beer, "How do you always seem to know the best thing to say?"

"Oh aye?" Bofur shoots Bilbo's almost drained tankard a significant glance, "I think it's the beer colouring your memory up mighty fine, Master Bilbo. I'm always one for putting my foot into me mouth. Famous for it."

"Wouldn't... wouldn't say so," Bilbo hiccups, apologises absently, then hiccups again, and then he gets to laughing, silly as it all is, the tankard dry and Bofur steading him with a hand on his arm.

"Why, and it was only the one drink," Bofur teases, and it seems so natural to brace his weight against Bofur's shoulder with an open palm: Bofur takes his weight without even seeming to register it and that excites him more than it should - he squirms. 

"I had several before this."

"As did I."

"Got to know the beer barrel first, did we?"

"It wasn't the only thing I was hopin' to get to know better tonight," Bofur grins, rather outrageously, and despite his earlier misgivings, despite his self-doubt, all Bilbo feels now is the warm buzz of affectionate amusement. It's a fragile moment in time, and he wishes for a moment that he could remember it in all its entirety, treasure it close. 

"That's surprisingly bold of you, Master Bofur."

"Remember what I told you - I say what I like, and think after." There's a touch of reserve to Bofur now though, as he straightens up, as though checking to see if Bilbo is truly offended - and perhaps it's some residual madness from battle, or perhaps the beer, but Bilbo dares now to squeeze Bofur's shoulder lightly and tug. 

He doesn't have the strength to shift Bofur even a step if the dwarf hadn't wanted to move, but Bofur steps along quickly enough, and now, Bilbo dares more. He leans down, so tentatively at first that his nose bumps against Bofur's and a gruff laugh colours the breath between them before he manages the self-control enough to kiss, slow, soft. There's a muffled thump as Bofur drops his tankard and brings up his hand to rub his thick fingers up Bilbo's curled spine, and he turns; Bilbo gets his elbows up over Bofur's shoulders and his knees dangle against the stall door to either side of Bofur's vest, and now, now they fit together. 

The wool of the flaps of Bofur's hat is ticklish and warm over the back of his bared arms as Bilbo breathes out in a whispery rush and catches the growing edge of Bofur's secretive and mischievous smile and kisses him again; this is light, this is life, and for the first time over the past few days Bilbo feels that he has preserved something precious out of the dust of time. 

"Bilbo," Bofur murmurs, his tone uncertain, then he freezes at the sound of a crash and giggling and Bilbo sighs as Primula and Drogo spill out from the side door and onto the hay. 

"Oops," Primula squints at them, and starts giggling again, even as Drogo scrambles to his feet, blushing a bright red. "Y'were here first, haha!"

"Haha," Bilbo notes dryly, even as Drogo mumbles a high-pitched string of apologies and gets Primula to her feet, still swaying. "Really, Prim?"

"I was, I was just, I was just," Primula gives up and throws her arms around Drogo, giggling again.

"I'm going to get her safely home," Drogo tells Bilbo hastily, with a shade more propriety. "Word of honour."

Bofur's shoulders are shaking a little under Bilbo's arms, and they watch Drogo and Primula stagger off out of the main entrance. "Maybe this wasn't as private as I thought," Bofur says finally, thoughtfully.

"Maybe not." They make no move to separate, but the mood's gone, even as Bofur tentatively tugs Bilbo down to rest their foreheads together, just for a moment. 

"I don't know as much about your kin as I should," Bofur says then, at last, when he lets Bilbo up, "But dwarves don't share - ever." 

"Neither do hobbits," Bilbo replies, and he's probably grinning a little foolishly, "But I'm still not sure that you're making the right choices, Master Bofur." 

"I'm older than you in terms of years, Mister Baggins," Bofur answers instantly. "Let me worry about my own choices, aye? I might as well be getting concerned about whether you'll think better of takin' up with a miner and a part-time toymaker, Master Burglar."

"You can let me worry about _my_ choices, then," Bilbo concedes, and in the face of Bofur's impish grin he feels his previously harboured doubt and anxiety fade, if just for now; when they kiss again that night Bofur's hand lifts up to Bilbo's cheek.

XIV.

After two weeks of no Guild members running into even the hint of a goblin's hide on their recovery trips to the Shire, Bilbo finally manages to cajole/threaten Nori into divulging this to Ferumbras. The Thain's offices are in the main administrative halls, in the lower levels, off a main corridor, and Ferumbras looks diminutive in the dwarven-made room, fiddling with a paperweight behind his overloaded desk. He looks pale and tired, which surprises Bilbo - as far as Bilbo's aware, the last two weeks have still been fairly festive.

"That's... good news," Ferumbras concludes finally, looking uncertain. "Isn't it?"

"Isn't it?" Nori repeats, incredulous. "Are you awake yet, Thain? If the goblins are gone, this means that your people can go back to the Shire. Take back their _homes_."

"Oh," Ferumbras blinks, and looks briefly confused. "But - we can't be certain-"

"Well, of course not," Bilbo cuts in soothingly, as Nori scowls. "But I'm thinking of leading a larger expedition than we normally do, into the Shire, to scout out the areas more thoroughly. Build an outpost, perhaps."

"It's not exactly what would benefit your Guild, is it?" 

"All right now," Nori growls, "What in Mahal's name is biting your ass, hobbit? You've been listening to us with half an ear since we've come in!"

Ferumbras looks around quickly, then he scuttles over to the door of his office, closing it firmly shut. He revolves a slow circle, under Bilbo's growing surprise, then he quickly closes the window to his office, as well. "Things are a little delicate in Ered Luin right now," he says finally, hushed. "You can keep a secret, the both of you?"

"Sure," Nori nods, and after a moment's hesitation, so does Bilbo.

"Thorin's father isn't... recovering," Ferumbras murmurs. "And the Lady Dís is in mourning for her brother. Thorin is under a lot of stress, and I think he might be making-"

"Why, what did the King decide now?" Nori interrupts impatiently.

"He's thinking of... a tax," Ferumbras says, in hushed tones. "Not only a mining percentage, as he does now to raise the minimum revenue to keep the administrative hall running, but on everyone." 

"Why, whatever for?" Bilbo asks, surprised. "Ered Luin's run quite well without a tax before."

"He's been talking about having a standing army. _Building_ the current one, that is, um, so they don't have to do the usual work in the smithies when there's no battle or guardsman work to be had. And there's been talk about expanding the mines-"

"There's no point in that," Nori frowns. "There's nothing between here and the fisherfolk but a few copper seams."

"He seems to think that there's gold to be had," Ferumbras murmurs unhappily. "Oh! I do think that his brother's death has been hard for poor Thorin! But I'm sure that he'll get over matters. Still, as you can imagine, the inner council's on a wee bit of a delicate footing. I'm not quite sure how I can broach the topic of a-"

"Well, it's Guild business, and even if it isn't, it's hobbit business," Nori shrugs. "I only came to you about it because Bilbo insisted."

"I, well, I see," Ferumbras mopped at his brow. "I suppose, yes, it would be good to um, have the Guild _volunteer_ for this reconnaissance expedition. For the safety of the city."

"Exactly," Bilbo agrees soothingly. "At the very least, we'll like to clear out the spiders from the granaries - if they're still about."

"All right them. So it's just Guild business as usual, more or less," Ferumbras says, with relief. "Go, go. Stay safe." 

Once they're back in the Guild, Bilbo rounds on Nori. "What in the world was _that_ about back there? I haven't heard that there was anything wrong."

Nori's scowling to himself though, picking at his beard, and in the end, he sighs. "Let me look into it. I'll talk to some contacts. You concentrate on organising and heading the expedition. A tax, Mahal! The businesses will be up in arms!"

"He'll tax us too," Bilbo points out, with a wry smile, and Nori glares at him.

"They bloody tax us already, with the Mahal-damned grain quotas! Blast. I can't help but think... no. Never you mind. This is my sort of Guild business," Nori adds, a little morosely.

"I'm willing to help," Bilbo points out. "We've discussed this." 

"Aye, aye. But we had best stick to our strengths, for now, and Dwalin owes me a favour."

"Dwalin's intensely loyal to Thorin."

"He's also blindly honest. I'll get more out of him than his brother." Nori settles down at his desk in the Guild hall. "How long d'you think you'll be away?"

"Two weeks, at the least. Probably a month," Bilbo decides, a touch regretfully. It's unfortunate to have to go away on an expedition so soon after reaching a tentative... understanding... with Bofur, but it can't be helped. He'll have to speak to Bofur about it. "Try not to burn the Guild down while I'm away."

Nori snorts. "I'll wrangle up a raven so you can keep me updated. Hopefully it's good enough news that it'll pull Thorin out of whatever sulk he's in, Mahal help us. A tax, my beard! That had better be the last of His Majesty's bright new ideas."


	8. Chapter 8

XV.

Preparation takes a trifle longer than Bilbo had expected, if only because Ferumbras had woken up out of his funk, enough to spread the word around the resident hobbit population about the Guild expedition, and a surprising number of non-Guild hobbits - _and_ dwarves - had instantly applied to join it.

Bilbo spends several afternoons with his self-appointed deputy, Primula, puzzling over who and who not to take, and on one such day, as they're crossing out those whom they deem rather too elderly for the trip, Lily steps over to their table, set up n a corner of Nori's open office. 

"Pardon me," Lily says, with a cheeky grin, "But there's an old dwarf out front t'see you, Bilbo. Says his name's Balin."

"To see _me_?" Bilbo repeats, surprised.

"Oh aye, he mentioned you specifically," Lily nods, clearly amused by it all, and Bilbo waves her away with an instruction to bring Balin over immediately.

"I wonder if something's happened to Nori!" Primula arrives at the worst case scenario instantly, aghast, and Bilbo opens his mouth, then closes it sharply, worried. Nori has been in and out of the Guild more often of late, chasing his 'contacts' - much of the existing Guild administration has been left to Bilbo. 

Anxiously, they wait as Lily shows Balin into the room. Balin smiles at them, good-naturedly, and Bilbo relaxes a fraction. Dressed in warm wools and fur-trimmed maroon, with his huge white beard and kindly smile, Balin did not look quite like any sort of bearer of ill tidings.

"Ah, Mister Baggins and Miss Brandybuck, well-met again," Balin starts warmly. 

"This isn't about Nori, is it?" Primula cuts in, still worried.

"No, no." Balin glances pointedly around the chamber, and Bilbo gestures at the few remaining hobbits about. Once the chamber is emptied, Balin ambles over to their table, currently near over-full with manifests of applicants, supplies, livestock and plans. "It's about this trip that you're organising."

"Oh," Bilbo notes, trying to sound only politely interested and probably failing. "What about it, Master Balin?"

"There have been some concerns hereabout," Balin notes, with a little wink that Bilbo can't quite parse, "That you plan on leaving Ered Luin for good."

"What?" Primula yelps, even as Bilbo blinks rapidly, surprised. He had expected perhaps warnings, or a city request, information about the goblins - anything but this.

"Eh," Bilbo manages finally, "That is an utterly unfounded rumour."

"So what be the official reason for your expedition, Master Burglar?"

Primula opens her mouth, but Bilbo hurriedly grabs her wrist. "Ah... you see, we're rather concerned about the giant spider sightings that occurred prior to all this business about Thráin... er... Lord Thráin... and such. We don't quite fancy the idea of giant monsters taking over our ancestral homes. So since the goblin and orc threat seems to be gone for now, we thought we might as well go and clear it out." 

"Ah," Balin nods sagely, and grins. "But if you reclaim your home, won't you be staying there?"

"Ered Luin is my home," Bilbo notes helplessly, wondering what the old dwarf was getting at. "I was born and raised here. I've lived here all my life."

"Not you then, perhaps. But the others? The older Shirefolk?"

"Oh, well, when it's safe," Bilbo frowns a little, "Perhaps it'll be all right to do a bit of cleaning up. I know the Old Gaffer's always talking about his hobbit hole... he'll probably love to see it again before he passes on. He's getting on in years, he is." 

"So even if there was some 'cleaning up', as you say, there won't be a transition?"

Bilbo folds his arms. "Master Balin," he says finally, as firmly as he can, "Perhaps we should approach this differently. You can inform me of your concerns, and we will address them in turn."

Balin chuckles, not offended in the least. "You're very much like your mother in many ways, young Master. All right then. The King's been a wee bit concerned that you might be engineering some sort of secession, Master Burglar, you and the Guild." 

"But that's-" Primula squeaks.

"That's very unlikely, Master Balin," Bilbo cuts in firmly. "I'm rooted here, as are most of the hobbits going on the expedition. We're interested in clearing out the area - especially the granary - and perhaps establishing, at the most, an outpost to survey the greater surroundings for orc activity. I doubt we have the means or the interest in repopulating the Shire."

"Perhaps," Balin agrees, "But the best of intentions still change."

"And even if we _did_ want to stay," Primula mutters, "What concern is that of the King? The Shire used to be our home. Why wouldn't the older folk, particularly, want to return? It's got to have lots of memories for them. My mum and my dad were always talking about the fields they grew up in, before the orcs came."

Balin sighs. "The King's had a lot on his mind recently, young Miss, and the fact remains that as his advisor, I've been tasked with overseeing this new development of yours. Personally, I do believe that you're right to set out, if only to clear the granaries, but I'm not too fond of surprises, and neither is Thorin of late." 

"So," Bilbo notes slowly, puzzled, "What do you want? I've told you what we're after. If you'll like updates, I'll be sending daily updates via raven to Nori."

"I should like to be able to make some minor suggestions to your recruitment manifests, if I may," Balin glances pointedly at the books under their hands. "That should satisfy Thorin for now."

"'For now'?" Bilbo repeats doubtfully, but Balin's expression doesn't change, and eventually, Bilbo sighs. "Well, why not. Make your suggestions." 

"It's rather short, thankfully," Balin nods. "Take Glóin and Óin with you - and Dís."

"I know Glóin, and I've heard of his brother... but the Princess?"

"The great outdoors might do her good." Balin sighs heavily. "She's been a-moping in her rooms, and her brother's been no help, what with how busy he's been. It'll do her a world of good to be out, I'm sure of it." 

"All right that," Bilbo agrees, if bemusedly. "Although I'm not quite so sure that the 'great outdoors' is safe for the grieving and distracted, even if it doesn't seem to contain orcs and goblins of late."

"Glóin and Óin will watch her. You won't need to worry about that," Balin assures him promptly.

"Why then, please inform them that we'll be leaving in three days, hopefully, from the night gate, right before second breakfast, and they'll have to bring their own packs and ponies," Bilbo decides, caving in.

"Very well," Balin nods at him. "Thank you, Mister Baggins. And good luck." 

Primula circles around the desk to show Balin out, and even as Bilbo writes the additional dwarves' names down on the book, trying to factor them into his calculations, she returns, looking rather put out. "We're being bullied already!"

"Hardly," Bilbo disagrees, distracted. "It makes sense for Thorin to want to be sure of what we're doing. It'll affect Ered Luin's economy if there's some sort of exodus."

"So what if there is?" Primula huffs. "We're all free to go as we please!"

"Politically speaking," Bilbo notes, with a wan smile, "So soon after the dwarves drove off the orcs, it might not be so... polite."

"We were in that battle too," Primula retorts, if sulkily. "Oh very well. You've always understood this better than I did. And I suppose the Princess is apparently a great archer... Óin's a decent healer and Glóin's good with a battleaxe. They won't be useless."

"Exactly," Bilbo agrees, having come to that conclusion prior to giving Balin his concession. "Besides, I suppose I'm a little worried about the Princess. I do hope that she'll be all right. If joining this trip of ours can help her, I'm glad that she's coming along."

"I hope that her brother breaks out of whatever funk he's in," Primula grumbles, "All this poking about Guild business is nothing like what _I'm_ used to. You mark my words, if it drags on, there'll be trouble between him and Nori."

XVI.

It's a fine day for riding, at least, even if Bilbo and Primula abruptly find themselves caught up in a flurry of last minute packing, arrangements, dispute settlements, assurances, arguments and worse. Bilbo briefly takes a break by retreating behind a wagonload of shovels and picks to have a nice, warm cup of blackcurrant tea, his nerves already near in shreds, and they haven't even yet left Ered Luin-

At least Dís and her tiny retinue/guards are waiting quietly at the side. She had greeted him with a wan smile and a wave but had said nothing, pulling her storm gray hood firmly over her eyes. Glóin had stayed beside her - it had been Óin who had approached to confirm the supplies manifests. The healer had looked solemn, and had murmured something neutral when Bilbo had awkwardly asked after the Princess' health. 

Tea finished, Bilbo climbs up onto the wagon to survey the increasingly orderly ranks of ponies and wagons, only to hesitate with a deep sigh. Moments later, he's at Bofur's side - the toymaker's fiddling one-handed with his tack - and Bilbo decides to take pity on the poor pony, pushing Bofur's hands aside. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" Bilbo whispers, trying not to let his irritation show.

"Why," Bofur grins at him in response, "You did say that you were off to the Shire, Mister Baggins."

"You didn't say that you wanted to come!"

"Because if I had," Bofur points out reasonably, "We'll have had a tiff rather than a nice dinner and a beer and a chat, then you'll have worried over it all night instead of getting a rest, eh?"

Bofur did have a point, but Bilbo scowls nonetheless. "I might be gone for a month, Bofur, maybe more. Your business-"

"Is on hold while this is healing up," Bofur taps at his arm cast. "So I might as well come along, aye? You were talkin' about how the goblins and orcs were long gone. It'll be nice, seeing what the Shire is like."

"I said that they _seem_ to be gone," Bilbo retorts. "What if they aren't? You're injured and you won't be able to defend yourself."

"I can use the mattock well enough in either hand, and besides, I suspect I'll still be better off than some of the folk that be tagging along." Bofur nods at the non-Guild hobbits who have meekly lined up, some already having minor problems controlling their excited ponies. "Don't worry about it. This will be _fun_."

" _Fun_?" Bilbo echoes, arching an eyebrow. "This isn't meant to be 'fun'. We're not on some sort of pleasure trip."

"Aye, aye, in which case, I'm a miner, and I can help out when we get there, arm or no," Bofur points out, and grins again. Bilbo sighs. Dwarves are notoriously stubborn folk, and as much as Bofur is grinning his lovely, mischievous grin as he speaks, Bilbo knows that he won't be able to budge Bofur on this. Blast!

"Oh, very well," Bilbo sighs. "I can't say I approve, but I can see that there'll be no changing your mind."

"That's right," Bofur's grin broadens, then he looks around a little furtively before leaning over to give Bilbo a whiskery, warm peck on the cheek. Bilbo colours instantly, with a stifled squeak, but Bofur's already pulling back, all playful mischief, and Bilbo can't help but fumble out a choked laugh in response.

"I suppose I am happy that you are coming along," Bilbo admits, and when Bofur's eyes light up, he adds quickly, " _And_ annoyed at the same time. I would've missed you. _But_ now I'm just going to be spending the entire trip worrying about whether you're all right."

"I'll be fine," Bofur assures him, even as he somehow manages to mount the pony one-handed. "Best you be heading up front now," he adds, a little reluctantly. "Seems like Miss Brandybuck is trying to get your attention." 

They don't quite manage another stolen kiss, not with the growing clamour about them, but Bilbo does squeeze Bofur's wrist hurriedly before he goes, and he feels the warmth at the tips of his fingers even after he's up on patient Myrtle. Primula grins cheekily at him from the front of the ranks, but Bilbo merely rolls his eyes at her as they head out through the night gate with a cheer from the mounted ranks and from those watching on the sides. As he turns, Bilbo picks out Nori from the group of Guild hobbits and dwarves who have been chosen to stay behind, close to the edge of the marketplace, and Nori nods and waves at him even as the raven on Nori's shoulder takes off, winging over to settle heavily on Bilbo's arm, clacking its beak.

Despite Bilbo's very many misgivings, the increasingly raucous expedition eventually sets up camp for the night in a forest clearing with no mishap or orc sightings. Here, Glóin comes in useful, with his warrior's training, helping Bilbo organise the layouts of tents and pens and set a watch and patrols, all unasked for. 

"I'm the Captain of the city guard," Glóin notes, when Bilbo tries to thank him, seemingly amused, although Bilbo can't quite tell it from the bristle of his enormous orange beard, "And you lot are still part of my city."

"We're not quite expecting trouble. I hope." Bilbo murmurs, rather unintelligibly. "That is to say, reports so far indicate that we won't be running into any trouble."

"Dwarves like to be prepared, Mister Baggins." Glóin claps him on the shoulder before ambling off to take part in the first watch himself, and Bilbo's left to do a quick check over the encampment before sitting down to warm his toes at a fire.

Fire. It occurs to him wryly that he's never, in all his years, ever dared light a fire so deep in the woods before. The orcs and goblins have keen eyes. Bofur settles down beside him even as he's still smiling to himself, and he ends up having to explain.

"Ah," Bofur chews briefly on his lower lip. "Y'know, it never did quite occur to me how dangerous Guild life was."

"No more than in the mines," Bilbo points out gently.

"The mines have their wee spots of trouble," Bofur counters, "But it ain't actively seeking to kill ye, if you take care."

"Likewise, out here." Bilbo dares, in the warm dark, as the rest of the camp around them settles down to sleep, to take Bofur's good hand in his own smaller palms, to turn up to broad hand and press his fingers onto large, callused digits. Dwarves and hobbits may have intermingled in Ered Luin, but it isn't so common a thing, and he feels uncomfortable all over again - at least, up until Bofur squeezes one of his hands gently, careful of his own strength. 

"I don't know what it's like for hobbits," Bofur says finally, softly. "But us dwarves like t'be orderly in all things, even this," He squeezes Bilbo's hand again, lightly. "There's somewhat of a... schedule to things, you could say."

"So formal?" Bilbo teases, curious despite himself. He's never quite had much of an intense interest in dwarven courtship before. He supposes that it isn't quite so surprising that just like the rest of their culture, it's formal and organised and sensible. "Hobbits don't quite do things that way."

"I know. I've asked about." Bofur nods, then he ducks his head, a little shamefaced, when Bilbo arches an eyebrow. "I can't quite understand it myself, but I'll like to, if I'm so guided."

Bofur is asking Bilbo to make a decision, Bilbo realizes slowly. Between trying to do things the way of dwarves, or allowing Bilbo to lead him through the relatively disorganised, carefree dance that is the hobbits' preferred way of things. He hesitates, petting Bofur's rough palm, then he smiles, despite where they are now, despite where they've yet to go. 

"My dear Bofur," Bilbo squeezes Bofur's fingers lightly, his smaller digits straining to grasp callused skin firmly and all at once, "Guild hobbits are rather... unconventional hobbits, should we say."

"I could see that."

"And you," Bilbo continues, with another squeeze, "Do seem to be a rather unconventional dwarf."

"In a way," Bofur agrees, his grin impish rather than offended, as Bilbo hoped.

"We have neither the time nor place for custom, nor the mood and atmosphere for frivolity," Bilbo adds, daring a grin of his own, "So I propose instead that we do what we please, when we can," Oh, if only his poor father and his father's clan could hear him now! "And be less concerned about whether everyone else feels that it's 'right', yes?"

"That seems," Bofur notes slowly, though his grin remains, "A rather messy way of approaching something important, Master Burglar." 

"You've run this far after me despite... despite it all," Bilbo corrects himself, more confidently now, to his own surprise. The weeks he had spent since the stable have been good for combating his own doubts and uncertainty. "So if you would rather try another way-"

"Oh no," Bofur hastily cuts in. "I was never truly one for old customs."

"If you're sure," Doubt starts to creep in at the edges. "I don't want you to feel like I'm not being serious about all this."

"Master Burglar," This time, Bofur's amusement makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, and a flush of hot impulse almost has Bilbo start over to press his lips to them, "I would never accuse you of being 'frivolous' about anythin'."

"Besides," Bilbo adds, more confidently, "This - what we have - it's _ours_. I don't see why we should let others define it at all." 

"Aye, there's that." Bofur agrees warmly enough, and this time he leans in just as Bilbo's turning to meet him, and the kiss is fumbled at first, then slow, Bofur's fingers threading through the thick curls at the back of Bilbo's head, and now, Bilbo dares part his lips to have a taste, to press his tongue hard against the seam of Bofur's mouth until Bofur lets him in with a stifled groan.


	9. Chapter 9

XVII.

The days remain sunny as they ride out through the pass into the Rushock Bog on a once well-trodden path, now overgrown: the hobbits behind them are singing an old harvest-song, taught to them in their cribs by their exiled parents, and even the dwarves are singing along. Bilbo had long given up trying to get them to stay silent - they're highly visible as they are, and if there's yet been no goblin or orc about, perhaps...

Perhaps.

Even _Primula's_ singing. After a couple of attempts to get her to stay alert, Bilbo gives up, nudging his pony to the front ranks, where Dís is riding, her hood drawn back for the first time in days, looking around herself with open curiosity. At her side, Óin glances at Bilbo briefly before turning to watch two sparrows twittering from the high boughs, and Bilbo draws his pony level beside Dís.

"It's a beautiful place," Dís starts first, watching the fields past the mossy trunks of the great, blackened bog trees. 

There's a scent of stagnant water and soil and grass, the rot of fallen leaves, the buzz of flies but it's not unwelcome now - at least, once they get out of the bog into the woodlands around to the Hill, there's movement over the mottled canopy, sprinkled with the morning sun - squirrels chasing each other over the branches. Blackbirds dart up twigs to watch them pass, tipping their heads and flashing their bright orange beaks as though in greeting, and Bilbo grins. He's never had much leisure to enjoy any entry into the Shire before.

"That it is," Bilbo agrees, even as the raven on his shoulder shifts a little grumpily and goes back to sleep. "I've been told that this would have been blackberrying season. The days would've been warming up, and everyone would've been making cakes and pies." 

He had been dragged by Ferumbras over the last few nights to a knees up over at the meeting hall in the Old Longbottom, a hobbit-owned-and-built pub run by the Harfoot clan. It had been meant to consist of strategic meetings, in order to fully maximise the recovery effort now that a large group was headed to the Shire rather than just pairs of Guild members, but it had quickly dissolved into reminiscing. Bilbo had never quite realized until then how much his mother's generation of hobbits had missed their old home. 

In the warmth of the sun, without the threat of an orc patrol over his head, Bilbo could see why. The Shire was indeed breathtaking, even overgrown and abandoned, with its defiled homes. The fields were lush with rich grass and wildflowers dotted with dancing scraps of colour: butterflies flicked about in the light breeze, startled briefly by a small brown deer that darted away quickly at their approach. Here was a land so rich that even blood and death had not ravaged all of it permanently. Now, he finally had the time and place to admire it. 

Dís wanted to know about blackberrying, and Bilbo finds himself dredging up the little that he remembers from his father as they trot into Hobbiton proper. He's about to ask Glóin to help with arranging the encampment when he hesitates. There, by the big oak in the centre of Hobbiton, is something that looks a little like a puzzle of a man...

Gasps ripple through the expedition as Gandalf uncurls himself from where he's been leaning against the tree, and now what had looked like distant wisps of clouds become the puffs of smoke from the Wizard's pipe, as he strides over to greet them. "Why, it is Bilbo," Gandalf smiles his whiskery smile, though his eyes are keen and curious. "And a great many hobbits and dwarves. Here to rebuild?"

"Not particularly," Bilbo says, a touch evasively. Gandalf had been part of the battle in Bree-land, but then he had parted on ill terms with Thorin, and as much as Nori had obviously respected the Wizard, Bilbo wasn't sure what his prerogative was, now.

Thankfully, Dís took over. "Wizard," she notes curtly, her tone faintly unfriendly.

"Ah, Dís." Gandalf inclines his head. "Well met."

"What do you want now?" Dís growls, unimpressed. "Another army?" 

"Hardly." Gandalf's only response to Dís' rudeness is a brief raise of his eyebrows. "I went East for a while, to look into a few matters, and then I thought to return here, to confirm a few suspicions."

"What suspicions?" Bilbo begins, but Dís' eyes narrow, and she motions to Glóin, who nods and trots over to address and organise the expedition. Bilbo dismounts, handing his reins to Primula, who looks bemused, and Dís does the same, handing hers to Óin. They walk past the oak and downhill, towards the overgrown remnants of what had likely once been a vegetable garden, and then Gandalf sits down on an upturned old rainbarrel, still smoking his pipe.

"The orcs have withdrawn east," Gandalf notes mildly, "But I am not so sure how long they will remain east. The Elves are fading from these lands. Rivendell stands close to empty; they are leaving for the Gray Havens, long before it is Time. It is a troubling thing."

Dís' lip curls. "What care we of the Elves?"

"You should," Gandalf says reproachfully, "For Rivendell buffers the gentler lands of the West with its lands. If it is fully gone-"

"The orcs came West nonetheless," Dís cuts in gruffly. "The Elves have been of little aid to us for decades." 

"The orcs, yes. But the Elves hold a power with them that keeps a greater evil in wait and in check. I am concerned," Gandalf concludes finally, with a sigh.

"Oh? And have you aught else to inform us of but your 'concerns'?" Dís asks bitterly. "You, who would have chosen a Ring over my father. You, who cast my people into a battle over a piece of jewellery?" 

"The Ring is not just a piece of gold," Gandalf says mildly, though his eyes are narrowed.

"Whatever it is," Dís retorts, "Was it worth the life of my brother and my father?" 

"It - and the Rings of its nature - are worth a great deal more than that, and the Ring that rules them all, even more so," Gandalf replies, with a touch of asperity. "You should know this, given your ancestral line, but I do not expect you to understand it, and believe me, I _am_ sorry about your loss. But had your brother given his Ring into my keeping, Ered Luin would have remained a bastion in the West, untouched."

Dís narrows her eyes, and now Bilbo sees the steel of her, the temper; in this she is closer to her brother than he has ever seen, her bearing imperious, her tone curt. "It is _our_ Ring now, and Ered Luin has withstood the orc incursion for decades."

"Aye, and can you tell me that your brother is unchanged, since Bree-land?"

She stiffens at that, glancing back over at the increasingly orderly expedition encampment, then back, lowering her voice. "He has been stressed of late. But only Balin is worried, and it is his place to worry."

"And you are not worried?"

Dís bristles visibly. "Thorin is a good King. He has ruled Ered Luin since the raid that took grandfather and father. I trust him to do what is just." Her fists clench - she is, as yet, fiercely loyal to her brother, and in light of the Princess' conviction, Bilbo's own doubts seem shallow.

"I hope you are right," Gandalf lifts a shoulder into a shrug. "It is true that the Rings do not quite affect the dwarves as they do Man. But we shall see. I am pleased that the hobbits are returning to the Shire," he adds, with a glance over to Bilbo.

"We're not returning, we're cleaning up. Checking for monstrous spiders and such," Bilbo points out, though this is with less determination than he intends. Over the last few nights, most of the campfire conversations, particularly with the older hobbit folk, had involved investigating old homes, revisiting old memories. He rather doubts that they'll all be home in a month.

"Ah, well, now that you have the aid of the dwarves," Gandalf nods politely at Dís, "Perhaps you could trouble them to make the Shire somewhat more defensible. You would want to avoid another disastrous orc incursion."

"It's hardly necessary," Bilbo adds hastily, but Dís is looking around her with a new light to her eyes, her lips pursed.

"There is something to what you say," she agrees finally, her hands going up to fist against her hips. "Perhaps an underground network between these... 'hobbit holes', I believe they are called. Exit strategies, at the very least. Or defensible positions. Something that won't spoil the land, but would still at the least allow an orderly retreat with limited casualties." 

"I suppose so," Bilbo notes doubtfully, "If we do stay that long."

At that, Dís finally smiles at him, and it is a thin-lipped smile, with no humour. "My brother does believe that you _will_ stay 'that long', Mister Baggins. It is my belief as well that _that_ is why I am here." 

She strides back towards the encampment even as Bilbo struggles to think of a response, and he ends up blinking and silent beside Gandalf, openly confused. "Dear me!" Gandalf murmurs, and blows out another smoke ring. "To think that when Aulë made the dwarves, He had only the simplest of intentions." 

"He - what?"

"He intended to make a sturdy race that could survive the worst that eternity could throw at it," Gandalf observes wryly, "But they are - perhaps so by design - a hidebound and bureaucratic race, traditional and inflexible, and that is why they too are fading from these lands." 

"I wouldn't say that of all of them," Bilbo retorts defensively, thinking of Nori and the Guild dwarves, of _Bofur_. 

"Perhaps not," Gandalf agrees, his good-humour seemingly returning - the next smoke ring becomes a butterfly that lights up to the boughs of the oak tree. 

"Will you be staying here long?" Bilbo asks, wondering what the Wizard is trying to hint at. Gandalf is surveying the overgrown remnants of Hobbiton, his eyes distant, as though reliving an old memory, and he blinks and glances down when Bilbo repeats his question.

"Hum! I suppose I will remain for a while as you clear out these lands. I do have some good memories of the Shire, and it will be rather pleasant to watch the rebuilding effort. Then it'll be back to Bree-land, to look to the Rangers." Gandalf sighs. "Now that the Elves are fading from these lands, perhaps Man's role in it needs to be greater. I need to speak to the Dúnedain and their new young Chieftain. Perhaps they can help guard the Shire."

"I've met Rangers before," Bilbo says doubtfully, "They tend to keep to themselves. What have we to offer them for their aid?"

"I'll deal with that," Gandalf assures him, puffing out another smoke ring, this one twisting into a songbird that swoops briefly around Gandalf's bent hat.

"And the Ring?" Bilbo dares ask then, if in a low tone. Gandalf arches an eyebrow at him, and Bilbo relates the matter of the tax, and then, despite himself, Balin's rather odd appearance in the Guild, and Nori's misgivings. 

Gandalf sighs, when he is done, and leans back against the tree, his eyes shaded from the hat. "I will have to think about that. Dear me! This is the problem with the stubbornness of dwarves. That Ring caused the downfall of Erebor. I do hope it won't do the same to Ered Luin. No, no, I shan't say more. Let me think about it in quiet."

Bilbo knows a dismissal when he sees one, and he retreats reluctantly over to the encampment. Tents and a perimeter are being set up in an orderly plan, and Primula's already drawing up a patrol roster as well as a survey roster. Around lunchtime, the dwarves and hobbits have long lost their awe for the Wizard, still sitting against the tree and smoking, and Primula approaches him with a bowl of stew with nothing more than one of her cheeky grins. 

They burn the bodies of the spiders in the granary after lunch, dragging out the corpses to the fields, and doing a quick sweep to check for others. Leaving a couple of hobbits to do an inventory of the granary, Bilbo heads out into the sun, where Dís and Primula are studying the collapsed door and stone that lead down to the Tuckborough smials. Paladin is with them, still a little pale but otherwise only slightly favouring his side, and he smiles at Bilbo's approach. The grief's fading from his eyes - there's much of the Took in him again.

"I thought we could clear out the old Took holdings," Paladin begins by gesturing at the door. "Much if it is probably still intact. The halls inside are big - we could house most of us in there and operate from the warm indoors."

Bilbo nods slowly. The Took clan had been one of the wealthiest in the Shire, and their family holdings are a warren of chambers and halls, according to the plans that he had once seen in his mother's room. "That's a good idea, if it's still stable."

"Let us worry about supports and excavation," Dís says firmly. Her grimness from the morning's meeting with Gandalf is gone - she seems excited now, curious. "This was your mother's home once, wasn't it? She described it to me before. I'll love to see it. Primula, if I could trouble you to get Óin to organise together the dwarves in the expedition with mining experience, please?"

Primula trots off, and Bilbo studies the shattered entrance more closely. It looks like the hobbits within the smials had brought it down on purpose, buried themselves within. He shudders. Hopefully, that was done purely with the intent to buy enough time to escape through other exits. 

"There are other ways in," Paladin tells him, no doubt guessing at his mood. "Quite a few Tooks escaped." 

"Because they were willing to leave early," Bilbo murmurs. "A fair number of hobbits refused to leave their homes, Mother said. Especially the older ones." And they were slain where they stayed.

"Well then," Dís glances back over her shoulder, towards another hobbit hole, this one caved in with refuse long left by the marauding orc army, so many decades ago, "Then perhaps what we should also do hereabouts is to finally bury and honour your dead. Óin can officiate - or if you would like, you can nominate one of your people."

Bilbo shivers again. That thought hadn't quite occurred to him when the expedition had been proposed to him. But now - yes - that did make sense. He mentally kicks himself for not even thinking of it. The hobbits had lost far too much that day. "Of course. And Óin should be fine."

XVIII.

Bilbo dutifully sends off the raven with an update and a note to Ferumbras of the funerals. They've chosen the Greenfields as a gravesite, and have already buried most of the bones that they've found so far that they could identify. It's sober, depressing work, especially whenever they find a set of bones too small to be anything but that of a child's. Tooks, Fallowhides, Harfoots, Gamgees, Baggins and more, being laid to final rest in the ground, their only markers salvaged stone from the Tuckborough excavation. One of the Guild dwarves had volunteered to carve names into the markers, but soon he had to be assigned assistants under the volume of it all.

Slowly, over the next two weeks, they clear out Tuckborough smials and the immediate surrounding hobbit holes in Hobbiton itself, but the first night spent underground, in the cleaned out smials before the great fireplace, fresh-stocked with wood in decades and roaring bright, is a quiet affair. More hobbits will be arriving in the morning, according to the raven message he had received in the evening, to help with identifying the bodies and effects, and to mourn the passing of brighter years. Gandalf had long disappeared to Bree-land, and Dís had stopped fussing over the meaning of the Wizard's appearance - she's standing in a corner of Took Hall with a map and Paladin, quietly discussing the network of branching tunnels that have yet to be cleared out. 

Bilbo's just finished signing off on a report on the outer Harfoot granaries when Bofur settles down next to him on the bench. Primula winks at Bofur, who grins at her, then she pads off to speak to Esme. Bilbo rolls his eyes at them as they glance back and giggle, and Bofur chuckles, low and soft at his side. There's something different-

"You took off your cast?" Bilbo frowns at Bofur. "Isn't that rather early?"

"I'm right as rain," Bofur turns his arm about. "Just a wee bit of an ache, but it be fine. Dwarves heal fairly quick."

"If you say so," Bilbo notes doubtfully, "But maybe you should get Óin to have a look at it."

"Aw, I wouldn't trouble Óin with something like this," Bofur says quickly, and when Bilbo looks at him, puzzled, Bofur adds, dryly, "Y'were aware, weren't you, that he's related to the King? They're part of the line of Durin, though they're far down the line of succession."

Bilbo blinks. He had always thought that the dwarves were, as a race, rather surprisingly informal where the concept of royalty was involved, but now he supposes, on hindsight, that perhaps it was really just an affectation of Nori's. Certainly, now that he looks back over the crowd, the few dwarves about do seem at the very least polite in Glóin and Óin's presences, and respectful in Dís'. He feels a little embarrassed about having taken it all for granted, and-

"But they aren't stiff about it," Bofur hastens to add, guessing at Bilbo's mood. "Not any more." At Bilbo's inquiring glance, Bofur shrugs. "I heard it was hard going, all the way out to Ered Luin. I was born on the road, during the lean times. Bombur was born in Ered Luin. We were too young to remember the road," Bofur adds, "But it was Durin's line that founded Ered Luin. They've worked hard to build a home out of Erebor, harder than everyone." 

There's a respect to Bofur's tone that's new to Bilbo - or is it? After all, Thorin and Frerin had raised their army of mostly volunteers and guardsmen very quickly indeed. Dwarves had long memories, and their trust was supposed to be unshakeable, once earned. "I've heard," Bilbo notes at last, wryly.

"That's why you've got more dwarves than you thought, volunteering to come down here," Bofur points out. "Our home's long been lost to the dragon. But yours is still here, and we're willing to help you build it back up if we can." 

"Assuming the orcs don't come back," Bilbo murmurs, but Bofur merely grins.

"Oh aye, if they do, this time you'll be far better prepared. A wee bit of dwarven craftsmanship here and thereabouts and you'll be able to hold these lands against the orc."

"I do hope it doesn't come to that," Bilbo laughs, though he squeezes Bofur's hand lightly, then he straightens up sharply when he leans over blithely to brush his lips firmly over Bilbo's mouth. He stiffens, a little shocked - they're not alone in the least - and Bofur's drawing back with an unrepentant grin.

"We were getting rooms out in here, weren't we all?" Bofur murmurs, his arm curling around to the small of Bilbo's back.

"Once the corridors are cleaned out and refurbished," Bilbo nods, and a smile sneaks onto his lips despite himself. Tents weren't much for privacy. "Soon," he adds, and the Baggins part of him is appalled at his boldness, as he pats Bofur's knee with playful promise, only to suck in a slow breath as Bofur's eyes darken in response before he steals another quick kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

XIX.

There are enough chambers in the smials for the whole expedition and more, and that, more than anything else, finally brings home to Bilbo how complete the orcish massacre had been. Somehow he had never quite thought of the Shire as a a big place before: all his visits to it on Guild business had tended to be focused and short out of necessity.

He's just finished carefully stacking the knick-knacks and abandoned personal effects in the room in a crate to be sorted when there's a soft knock on the door. "Come in," Bilbo says distractedly, as he studies the small globe ornament in his palms, filled with water. A little sculpture of a hobbit hole and some trees is set on the base, and if he turns it about, sparkly paper drizzles around in a brilliant yellow shower. 

"That's a good trick," Bofur notes, with the admiring tone of a fellow craftsman, and Bilbo hands the ornament over with a grin. Bofur studies the seam, turning it carefully this way and that before setting the globe in the crate. "Good detail on the trees."

"I'm sure that you could do better," Bilbo notes, with no real sense of flattery - he's seen the toys in Bofur's workshop before, after all, with their intricate engravings and shapes. "There was that ball in your workshop, of four latticed wooden balls contained one within the other? I have no idea how you even _made_ that."

"That?" Bofur looks pleased, "Pshaw, that wasn't any special trick, Master Burglar. Just a few days' work with small tools. If I had known that you had liked that one so much I would've given it to you."

"Oh no," Bilbo laughs, shaking his head slowly, "A child would probably get more out of it. Not that I don't think that it's beautiful," he adds hastily, when Bofur starts to frown, "But I doubt that I would have the time to play with it the way a child would."

"Ah," Bofur grins then, and he tugs Bilbo over, a little tentatively, then his hands turn more confident when Bilbo lets himself get pulled flush against Bofur's gray woollen tunic. The fabric is warm to the touch - Bofur's just out from being under the sun - and he smells, pleasantly, of grass and the earth. His beard and whiskers rasp soft against Bilbo's chin as he tips Bilbo's head up gently for a kiss, untroubled at first, then hungry, then he's chuckling as Bilbo pulls back with a gasp to check the door. "Locked," Bofur assures him."

"Why," Bilbo notes, feeling himself start to flush, "It's as though you anticipated that something irresponsible was about to happen."

"I wouldn't call something like this irresponsible," Bofur arches his eyebrows, even as his lips graze down Bilbo's jaw to his neck, almost ticklishly. "Dwarves are very responsible folk." 

"Are they now," Bilbo stifles the brief surge of nervousness that he feels as Bofur walks him back towards the quilted bed, the edges drawn soft from the dimming sun of the window. The dwarves had found the nature of hobbit construction decidedly strange, and even now, Bofur evidently can't help but glance briefly towards the window. 

When Bilbo lets out a soft laugh, he looks back over with a mock scowl. "It's right odd how your homes seem t'be underground and above ground at the same time. Windows! Underground windows!"

"Don't look at me," Bilbo says dryly, his knees pressed against the bed, daring to shift back onto the soft quilt and tug to encourage Bofur to climb up after him, "I've lived my life in above and under-ground Ered Luin. But this _is_ a sight prettier."

"Prettier than a dwarven city? Psh. It's a mess. Your hobbit holes are built all over the place, no order whatsoever," Bofur's grinning, however, as he's pulled down over the bed, supporting his weight easily on sturdy arms as he kneels between Bilbo's self-consciously spreading thighs to kiss him again, the only sign of his nervousness the fumbling press of his lips. Bilbo's kissed others before, in his tweens, done more than that in awkward fumbling moments after the summer festivals - hobbits are as carefree about experimentation as they are with the concept of government. 

Bofur, on the other hand, now seems uncharacteristically hesitant, reserved, even, his hands staying where they are on either side of Bilbo's ribs, and he swallows a gasp poorly when Bilbo's fingers go to the clasp at the neck of his tunic. "Bofur?" Bilbo queries, hesitating, Bofur shifts back, flushed, his woollen hat askew; Bilbo grins at the sight of it, but Bofur remains nervously solemn. 

"It's a wee bit odd," Bofur says finally, when Bilbo shifts his palms away from the clasp to the dwarf's broad shoulders, "T'be doing this before we're even promised. That is," he adds quickly, when Bilbo sucks in a slow breath, "Not that I'm _expecting_ it, or actually, I am, but I'm not expecting you to definit'ly agree, just-" 

Bilbo's leaned up, his kiss muffling the babble into a comfortable groan, and it's his turn to grin mischievously when they part, feeling every ounce of his Tookish blood. "It isn't odd in the least. Turn. Here." Bilbo pushes, and almost reluctantly, Bofur follows his guiding hand, lying on his back. He's almost too large for the hobbit-sized bed, his heels nearly hanging to the edge, and for a moment it's so incongruous a sight that Bilbo nearly has a fit of giggles. 

He shifts back experimentally - it's been years since he's done something like this, and never with a dwarf - and his rump presses back against an unyielding pressure that makes him tense up. Bofur stifles a startled whine against his wrist, then he groans when Bilbo, with more confidence, grins and pins his wrists to the quilts, rolling his hips. Booted heels shift briefly and desperately against the quilt, then Bilbo is groaning as Bofur gets enough leverage to push back against him in a rough, slow grind. 

This is better than he remembers: better than awkward, clumsy kisses and the giggling explorations of tweens, as much as Bofur's hands first clutch desperately at the quilts and then settle hesitantly on Bilbo's hips, urging him on with squeezes and tugs. They rub against each other until their breeches feel rough and uncomfortable; then Bofur lets out a strangled noise as Bilbo gets his hands on the laces of his breeches. 

He remembers this much from being a tween: the hot velvety slide of aroused flesh against flesh, slick with spit from his mouth, their breeches pulled to their knees. Except that here, he can't get his hand around them both and Bofur is leaning up onto his elbows with a moan, a hand fumbling into Bilbo's curls to tug him down into a kiss, even as the hand snakes between them to curl over Bilbo's fingers, speeding up the unsteady rhythm. Bilbo gasps, once, then he's groaning as he bucks into the slick pressure, trapped snug between their fingers, choking a gasped " _Bofur_ ," before he's soiling them both. 

"Mahal," Bofur groans, then bites out something unintelligible and rough as he stiffens, his hand clenching and tugging; Bilbo whines from the overstimulation, fisting his hands in Bofur's collar, then he groans as Bofur shakes under him, his eyes growing dazed as he comes so beautifully undone - he leans forward to seal their lips together to stifle Bofur's cry.

Bilbo feels like he's floating - serene, warm, _safe_ , grinning foolishly as Bofur presses breathless and open-mouthed kisses against his jaw, his neck, then his mouth, like prayer, like worship, and all the doubt he has ever felt about this now seems trivial. They kiss until the lantern flickers and starts to fade, then Bilbo remembers enough of himself to fumble for a handkerchief to clean them both up with. 

"Somehow," Bofur's leaning back against the pillows now, watching him with no apparent intent to help him, "I didn't figure you for carrying one of those."

"What? Why not?" Bilbo pauses, surprised.

"Well," Bofur scratches at his chin, and grins, "They seemed to be for awful gentle folk, those little square things, naught big enough for proper wipin' and naught small enough for favours." 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bilbo notes primly, balling up the handkerchief as best he can and tossing it into the neat basket of dirty clothes that he's left in a corner of his room, then straightening their clothes. "I go everywhere with a handkerchief." 

For some reason, Bofur finds this hilarious, despite Bilbo's scowl, though he pulls Bilbo down against him when Bilbo makes as though to leave, pressing his cheek against Bofur's chest - Bilbo listens to the warm, deep laughs shake through Bofur's frame and smiles to himself as lips eventually press against his curls. Bofur murmurs something against him, almost hesitant, most certainly in Khuzdul, quite inaudible, and Bilbo presses his palm up, against the drumming beat of Bofur's heart. 

"You know that you're not meant to say any Khuzdul before a non-dwarf," Bilbo murmurs, and he hopes that his grin isn't quite as foolish as he thinks.

"Mm," Bofur doesn't sound sorry in the least, his arms tightening around Bilbo for a second before relaxing.

XX.

When the Man comes riding up the newly cleared, winding paths past Bridgeford towards Hobbiton, careless as you please, the afternoon watch is so surprised that they nearly let him all the way through towards Tuckborough - only Glóin thinks to bar the stranger's way and send a runner for Bilbo and Dís.

They've stayed long past the one month that Bilbo had originally estimated, and more hobbits had come down from Ered Luin than he had anticipated. The granaries were long cleared and inventoried, all the hobbit holes in Hobbiton proper and the Hill have been cleaned out, the bodies buried, and they're working on the outlying hobbit holes. Bilbo still sends his daily updates back to Nori, but by unspoken agreement or circumstance, he and Dís have remained leaders of the Shire expedition. 

Dís stares at the Man with open suspicion as she emerges from the main oaken doors of Tuckborough, freshly replaced, Bilbo a step behind her. He's one of the Rangers of the North, Bilbo surmises, dressed in browns and grays, hooded and heavily armed - a bow at his back and a longsword at his hip, a knife in his boot and another dagger at his belt. His saddlebags are half-empty, and his chestnut horse stamps and snorts, spirited and fierce. 

"Well, who are you then?" Dís begins, with her usual imperiousness. "You trespass on the sovereignty of Ered Luin, Man."

The Man glances at her, amused and not cowed in the least, and dismounts from his horse, grasping the reins firmly. He sketches a bow that seems, to Bilbo's untrained eye, perhaps ironic, though there's good humour in his smile under his shaggy, shoulder-length hair and bearded face; his eyes are sharp and curious. Bilbo can't quite tell how old the Man is - he's never really been able to place a Man's age unless the Man is very young or very old, but from the gangly cast to the Man's frame and the fuzziness to his beard, he supposes that this Man is probably just out of his adolescence, perhaps. He can't be sure.

"I am known as Strider," the Man begins, in a pleasant-enough voice, quite polite, "I am the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, leader of the Rangers of the North." 

"You?" Dís asks, unable to hide her surprise. "You are young for a Man, if I judge this so. Have you proof?" 

"None whatsoever, unless you care to come with me to the wild lands and have my scattered people identify me to your satisfaction," Strider replies, amused. 

"Ha!" Dís smirks. "Well, I suppose that your arrogance fits the role, young Man. What business have you here?"

"I was asked by Gandalf the Grey to speak to the Lady Dís, Princess of Ered Luin, and Mister Bilbo Baggins, also of Ered Luin. I presume that you are they?" 

"The Wizard? What does he want now?" Dís growls.

"Ah," Bilbo interjects mildly, "He did say something about heading to Bree-land to find the Rangers, to try to get them to help with our defenses."

"Well, we don't need their help," Dís looks Strider up and down coolly. "Men are short-lived and can't be trusted."

Strider raises his eyebrows at this, but says nothing, though he grins, and Bilbo sighs. "We of the Guild have had cause to encounter them now and then, and the Rangers _can_ be trusted. Although, they are not usually folk with very much interest at all in turning guardsmen, Master Strider."

"Ah," Strider lifts one rangy shoulder into a light shrug, "Gandalf was very persuasive."

"I'm sure he was," Dís notes, though the sourness in her tone seems halfhearted. "Oh, very well. I suppose it would help if we could learn firsthand if any orcs are showing up again in these parts. But I do know something of Men - nothing that your kind does comes for free, does it?"

"Well, the Lady Dís is wise," Strider's flattery is playful rather than heartfelt, though even as Bilbo stiffens a little, he sees Dís hastily hide a faint grin, "And aye, I suppose that now and again one of our scouts may chance this way with a need to rest his horse and refresh his water skins." 

"We can do better than that," Dís gestures to Glóin. "Tell the cooks to prepare a feast tonight! We'll toast this young and arrogant Man, and by Mahal, I'll drink him under the table!"

There's a laugh from the other dwarves and hobbits listening in, and Strider's horse is led away, even as Glóin escorts Strider carefully into Tuckborough to show him to a spare set of rooms. The Man has to stoop heavily to get through even the large doors, and Bilbo winces as Strider accidentally bumps his head against an overhead lantern.

"That's very nice of you," he murmurs to Dís, who rolls her eyes at him.

"If he's been sent here by the Wizard, I want to have his measure, and there's no easier way to do that to a Man than getting him drunk." She tips her head in the direction of the stables. "Shouldn't you be going through his saddlebags for anything curious?"

"I'm a Burglar, not a Thief," Bilbo drawls, though he complies, padding off towards the stables, shaking his head slowly. Yavanna, but the intricate suspicions of royalty are going to be the death of him. 

Perhaps to Dís' disappointment, there's nothing suspicious at all in Strider's saddlebags, and all that young Strider shows when he's in his cups is a penchant for rather terrible tavern songs and sea shanties, which the dwarves and hobbits find hilarious enough to join in. It's a nice, warm night, and the first of the cleared fields have started to quicken and grow, and Bilbo's in good spirits as he drafts his report to Nori and dictates it to the raven. Once it wings away, Bofur settles down beside him at the table, and curls an arm around his waist. 

"Why," Bilbo laughs, "I do declare that you're tipsy, Master Bofur."

"I've had... two pints of moonshine," Bofur agrees rather mournfully, "That Esme Took has... has this powerfully apples - eh - a powerfully moonshine of apples," he concludes, a little haphazardly, and grins when Bilbo kisses him on the nose, quite charmed. After a month in the expedition, they've long eased up on trying to sneak about the others, especially since it became rather obvious that not even the non-Guild hobbits and dwarves cared quite a whit. This may be an Ered Luin expedition, but it was days away from Ered Luin's customs. _Miles_.

"Well then, you've had enough." 

"Maybe," Bofur hiccups a little, and tries to adjust his hat, only to succeed in knocking it down over his nose. Bilbo pushes it back up on his head, avoiding grabbing hands, "You spent the night drinking with, with Dís and that Man too." 

"Well, until they decided to hold that silly contest," Bilbo nods, with a glance towards the slumped heap over at the main trestle table, now snoring gently. "I do hope that young Man isn't terribly ill in the morning." Never try to out-drink a dwarf. 

"Y'were really friendly with him," Bofur continues, with a rumbling sigh, and Bilbo stares at him for a long moment with confusion before he starts to laugh again. 

"My dear Bofur, if this is what moonshine does to you, I really must tell Esme - no, no, shh," Bilbo catches Bofur's wrists quickly. "You have no cause whatsoever to be worried. All right?"

"Right," Bofur scowls, and it's such a ludicrously unfamiliar expression on Bofur that Bilbo has to bite down on his lip to swallow another laugh. "An'... an' the Princess?"

"Is rather lacking an important bit of equipment," Bilbo points out dryly, and when Bofur frowns at him again, he shoots a significant glance over at Bofur's lap.

"Oh... aye," Bofur grins now, slowly, then he hiccups again. Blast Esme and her apple moonshine! "Maybe... maybe you should be a, a miner, then you'll be out in Westfarthing with me all day rather than, rather than here."

"You're going to regret this quite terribly in the morning as well," Bilbo notes dryly, getting to his feet and trying to pull Bofur to his. Somehow, they stumble back into Tuckborough with only a minor mishap involving an old and overgrown hedge, and Bilbo's still picking leaves and twigs from their clothes as they stumble into his room. 

Bofur's worming into the bed despite Bilbo's attempts to get his boots off, singing one of Strider's terrible shanties under his breath and forgetting most of the awful lyrics, and in the end Bilbo's too amused to undress for bed, allowing Bofur to hold him down on the streets and mumble against his shoulder. He picks the woollen hat off to prop it on the side table, and pets his unruly hair until Bofur's breathing goes heavy with sleep. Perhaps staying in the Shire for so very long might not be quite so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn is in his 20s when he becomes Chieftain, and in his 80s when he joins the Fellowship... ;o Fun fact!


	11. Chapter 11

XXI.

"Are you quite all right?" Bilbo plops himself down opposite Strider at the long table set in the meadow at Hobbiton, amidst the bustle of the day's tallies and stocktakes.

Surviving furniture has been stacked orderly and labelled about them - beautiful walnutwood tables and oak chairs, inlaid plates and china and more; tarnished silverware and candlesticks, cabinets, _books_ , neatly stacked in chests. A surprising amount of intact items are being unearthed everyday, tallied, labelled and then moved to cleared out warehouses in Hobbiton while the hobbit holes that once housed them are cleared out, checked for bodies and then either slated for repair or orderly destruction if beyond aid. It's hard work yet. 

Strider shoots Bilbo a wry grin. His jaw is just about starting to bruise, and he keeps rubbing the edge of it ruefully; his knees are pressed comically high, seated on a bench far too low for his height. The young Man had woken up with only a slight hangover, which seemed to have abated after a considerable breakfast, after which the Lady Dís had first challenged the Ranger to an archery match (which she won) and then to blades, which she had abruptly called off after knocking the poor Man flat a couple of times. She had studied his longsword, shot him a long and thoughtful look, and then had made some excuse and wandered off to Tuckborough.

Royalty. Dwarven royalty. Bilbo will never understand them.

"I'll heal," Strider takes a sip of the mild cider that some of the hobbits had just brought down from Ered Luin, brewed from the first of the year's crop of apples. Bruises hadn't seemed to have affected the Man's appetite at the least - the bones of a plump chook lie stacked neatly on his plate. "Perhaps I am lucky that Dís got bored. I must say, I was surprised that she was so skilled with both blade and bow."

Bilbo shrugs. "Hobbits and dwarves give no real importance as to whether or not a babe is born male or female." 

"But the Princess can never inherit Ered Luin." 

"I don't see why not," Bilbo notes doubtfully - he had never quite asked. "She's definitely involved in leadership decisions." Sort of. 

"Mm," Strider grins suddenly. "It isn't this way for Men. Other than the Shieldmaidens of Rohan, I think. Men and women oft have different roles."

"Oh?" Bilbo asks, surprised. He had never been quite so curious as to linger over-long in Bree-land. "How strange! But there's naught that much that's different between males and females, is there? Are the Elves like this too?"

"Of the Elves, I suppose I am not-" Strider cuts himself off, with a half shake of his head. "Though I am not so familiar with the world. Only what I learn from what I have heard. I should like to travel," he adds, with a touch of boyish enthusiasm. "See different lands. All of the lands of Men. And Elves. And hobbits and dwarves too, if there are others." 

"There're other dwarven holdings," Bilbo notes, amused. "But I do believe there are no other hobbits anywhere. Where will you go first?"

"East. Past Rivendell. I'm not certain." Strider stares pensively into his cider, his earlier cheer ebbing. "The roads are no longer safe, nor the forests. The Elves are fading from the lands, and the dark creatures from the deeps of the mountains are coming down to the plains. I have heard other Men call this gray time the days of dust."

Bilbo shivers, glancing out over at the noise and hubbub of the stocktaking, the laughter as a hobbit mock haggles with a dwarf over a tarnished silver tiara. "Gandalf too bore dire tidings of the world." 

"Wizards do not usually exaggerate." 

"Perhaps it is just like a winter, or a storm," Bilbo suggests hopefully. "It just needs to be weathered." 

"I hope so. This is a good place," Strider gestures about them both, expansively. "The Rangers will help you protect it for as long as we can, although we are few and scattered."

"I do appreciate the aid," Bilbo nods. 

"Ah yes," Strider adds, as an afterthought, and brightens up, curious. "Gandalf mentioned that you were a Burglar. Is thievery a profession amongst the dwarves and hobbits?"

Bilbo sighs. "All right. Let's clear up that misinterpretation," he decides, and the rest of the afternoon ends up with nothing done other than a story swap between them both, until it's late in the day and Bilbo's growing a little alarmed at the number of escapades such a young Man seems to be capable of getting up to.

"Didn't your parents ever worry?" he asks, after one somewhat unbelievable story involving a cave troll and being told precisely how old the young Man was. Good Yavanna! The Man was hardly as old as a hobbitling on the cusp of maturing!

Strider's expression freezes slightly, then he smiles, though it doesn't touch his eyes. "Ah, my parents are no longer about to express an opinion, but my adoptive father did not approve, and did extend a very long lecture to me the last that I was in his company."

"So I should think," Bilbo notes, still somewhat aghast, which is when Bofur settles down beside him on the bench. 

Bilbo shoots him a startled glance, but Bofur sober is a friendly Bofur, who's already grinning and asking, "So y'think what?"

"Strider, this is Bofur," Bilbo introduces Bofur, and Bofur shakes the Man's hand firmly. "I'm very fond of him, but he does seem to have an awful tendency to stick his nose everywhere." 

"I can't help it when everythin' you're doing is so much more interestin' than what I'm doing," Bofur retorts, pressing a palm rather proprietarily at the small of Bilbo's back. Strider's eyes drop briefly, then he grins himself, amused again.

"I've felt that way before about a maiden."

"A female Man?" Bofur asks, clearly having no sense of tact whatsoever. "I don't think I've ever seen one before."

"A female Elf," Strider corrects absently, then Bofur laughs out loud when Strider colours a little as he says this.

"Well, don't say that in hearin' of the Princess," Bofur drawls, "They aren't right friendly with Elves, the House of Durin is. I haven't seen an Elf maiden before, either. Are they like dwarf maidens?"

"Well," Strider begins helplessly, clearly blindsided by the question and unsure where to begin.

"I suppose they'll be like female Men," Bilbo cuts in dubiously. "Tall." He gropes briefly for a memory of Bree-land. "Long hair?"

"If they choose, but yes, she does have long, dark hair-"

"I suppose like the male Elves, they dunt have beards?" Bofur asks doubtfully, and even as Strider lets out a burp of startled laughter, Bofur grins mischievously.

"Only female dwarves have beards," Bilbo points out.

"And right nice ones, aye," Bofur retorts.

" _I_ don't have a beard," Bilbo counters, and this time the warm hand at his back sneaks to his waist.

"Didn't say I minded," Bofur murmurs, and as he leans over Strider smiles and leaves the table to them quietly.

XXII.

Strider leaves the next morning, and over the next, long stretch of sunny days, through the first crop of fresh vegetables from the newly tilled fields, Bilbo forgets his misgivings over Strider's words. The lands of Man seem far away, even though Bree sits on their borders, and the words of Men grow distant with the days.

Then Nori rides down from Ered Luin, one warm afternoon, his shaggy pony lathered with sweat and exhausted, and Nori nods curtly to the hobbit that Bilbo has take the pony and motions to Bilbo and Primula. They walk out into the Greenfields, through the now neat rows of fully marked graves.

"So many," Nori speaks first, with a grunt, eyeing the graves. He sounds tired, and a little lost, and his added, exhaled, " _Mahal_ ," is weary and small.

"We couldn't account for everyone," Bilbo says soberly. "Many fell in the forests, their bones long picked away by animals." Or the orcs and goblins. Horrible creatures. "But this is everyone we've found in the Shire."

"So many," Nori repeats again, in a low murmur, then he straightens up. "I've got to head out tomorrow," he mutters, "I had to stop by to get the measure of the Princess and speak to you in person. There's a general tax in place in Ered Luin now, and there's been some rumbling about it but not near enough-"

"Not 'enough'?" Primula repeats, surprised. "Why-"

"Let me finish," Nori interrupts, with a trace of irritation. "No one outside the Administration Halls has seen the King in _weeks_. Months. Not since the expedition left, I wager. Something's not right with it all."

"A coup?" Bilbo notes doubtfully. Dwarves seemed to have a system of governance that was an absolute monarchy - it made little sense to hobbits. Still, he didn't think that anyone would want to overthrow Thorin.

"No, no. As far as I can tell through my sources, the King's still very much alive," Nori grunts. "He might be crazy, but he's alive."

"Crazy? How?"

"He's declared your Shire as part of Ered Luin," Nori says, with a deep sigh. "I rode down here ahead of the declaration. He's getting Balin to come down, make it all official. The Shire's take will all be taxed, and anything valuable's going have to be up for measure and sent back to Ered Luin for tabling."

"But," Primula starts to protest.

"But there's nothing out here," Bilbo adds, surprised. "Not unless you count some jewellery and silver spoons and such. Not like the halls of gold in Erebor or whatever Thorin might be used to."

"That's what Ferumbras _told_ him," Nori shrugs. "And frankly, I believe it. You hobbits are a hardworking sort, but you're more interested in food and the good life than hoardin' bits of shiny metal."

"Well," Bilbo says doubtfully, "If he really wants them, he's welcome to the unclaimed items, I suppose, though I can't understand why on earth he might want to hoard some china plates and rosewood cabinets."

"He's ordered the Guild to scout out the fisher towns more thoroughly too," Nori grunts.

"But they've got nothing down there," Primula wrinkles her nose. "They're not that interested in hoarding gold and silver either, even if they could find any, I wager. Life's hard down in the towns."

"Oh aye," Nori mutters. "Blast! Where's the Wizard when you need him? I was rather hoping that he might be about. Now I'm going to have to ride out into Bree-land and enquire after him, and Mahal knows where on earth he might be."

"The Wizard?" Primula asks, surprised. "Why would you want to go after the Wizard?"

"Because I think that he knew what was coming, Mahal take him, and I want to know the whole story," Nori replies, stone-faced. "I'll shake it out of him if I have to."

Bilbo has a brief mental image of Nori trying to shake information out of the tall and dignified Gandalf, and can't help a quick smile. "Maybe the Rangers might know where he is." He explains about Strider, and adds, "I heard that they check in at Bree now and then. You could get a message to them at the tavern." 

"Well, that's something," Nori sighs, glancing keenly at them. "You're both going to think that I'm worrying too much."

"Oh yes," Primula nods, even as Bilbo says, cautiously, "I'm not so sure." 

"Oh?" Nori looks sharply at him, and Bilbo finds himself self-consciously narrating Strider's words, and about the days of dust, and at the end, the dwarf snorts. "I'll keep an ear out, but Man is a funny race, with funny ideas, and I'm not sure how much credence to pay their rumours. Still, it'll be something to check about in Bree, if I can't catch up to a Ranger." 

"I'll go with you," Bilbo decides, thinking the route over quickly. When Nori glowers at him, he adds, "Guild members never head out alone, remember?"

"This isn't Guild business."

"All the more that you're going to need to be careful."

"Another reason I rode down here so quickly," Nori adds irritably, "Is that you're now acting Guildmaster, which means that you'll be heading back up to Ered Luin as soon as you're able. You're going to have to hold the fort until I get back. No, don't argue with me. You're the best suited to the role and the Guild needs someone to keep it going."

Bilbo tries arguing, but Nori stands firm, and in the end, he caves. Dwarves are impossibly stubborn. "Oh, very well," he says, reluctant. He's grown rather fond of the Shire over the past few weeks, and the thought of returning to Ered Luin seems less... exciting than before.

"Keep an eye on Thorin if you can," Nori mutters. "I'll bring you up to speed on everything important tonight. Ori knows the rest," he adds, to Bilbo's surprise. "Scribes have a very good memory," he continues impatiently, when Bilbo blinks. "And I don't want to trust the important things to paper as yet. Paper can be stolen. I should know." 

"You're still not going out there alone," Primula says stoutly. " _I'm_ going with you." 

"Fine," Nori sighs. "Pack tonight. We're travelling light." 

"Here comes the Princess," Bilbo warns, catching movement at the edge of his vision. 

"I saw her. Don't mention anything about the Wizard. Let me handle the talking." 

Dís interrogates Nori, but doesn't budge his story that he's interested in looking further afield for orc, and at night, Bofur starts orderly packing away his things the moment Bilbo mentions that he has to return to Ered Luin. Bilbo finds himself grinning, even though he had been very sure that Bofur would follow him. It's a relief that something in his world has remained absolutely stable. 

Bofur technically has been assigned his own room, not that it's used, and although this has made Bilbo's room rather crowded at times, Bilbo thinks that he'll miss it. He'll miss-

"When we're back in Ered Luin," Bofur says, as he's wrapping up his tools and the unfinished knob of wood that he had been working into a small sculpture of a lamb, "I've got space above me shop." When Bilbo starts to laugh, Bofur stops, glancing up. "I know you've been living at my brother's, my place isn't much but it'll fit, that is," he adds, tugging at one of the flaps of his hat, "If you want to."

Bilbo kisses him, because that's the best response he can come up with on short notice, and Bofur's hands curl around his waist as he gives Bilbo back as much as he gets; then he ends up chuckling with his lips pressed to Bilbo's temple. "D'you know," he murmurs, "I was planning to ask for days, even though I didn't know if we were ever going to go back, and I was gettin' all nervous, and then it slips out anyway before I was ready and I thought it was coming out all wrong."

"It wasn't the best by way of invitations," Bilbo agrees, though he grins as he says this. "But I'm terribly charmed nonetheless and I'm not sure why."

"That's fine then," Bofur decides, then a rough thumb touches lightly to Bilbo's lips, tracing the tips. "You were wearin' such a long face when you came in, I thought somethin' terrible had happened."

"I was just thinking," Bilbo sobers up quickly, wary. 

"Aye, I saw Nori. It's Guild business, isn't it?" 

"Yes. Nothing for you to worry about."

"I thought you were going t'run off into the wild yonder with him," Bofur notes mildly, though when Bilbo glances up, he doesn't see jealousy, only a warm concern. 

"I did offer," Bilbo admits. "But then he said that he needed me in Ered Luin, which is probably true, and besides," Bilbo adds, when Bofur starts to speak, "I had a bad feeling that if I _did_ choose to go with Nori, you would have found some way to try and follow us, and that would have been a right awful bother."

"Well, that wasn't a very nice thing to say," Bofur drawls, thumbing playfully at Bilbo's nose. 

"I do hope that you're not about to try and follow me around proper Guild business in the future."

"That would depend on what you're doing," Bofur notes mildly. "The main function of your Guild is finished, isn't it? The Shire's been retaken, and if the orcs are gone, then scouting can be done by guards patrols." 

"I suppose then I'll be organising the orderly descent of a select number of very specialised dwarves and hobbits into unemployment," Bilbo says, a little facetiously, though he is faintly worried. Nori hadn't addressed this at all during the rushed, additional briefing that he had given Bilbo after the meeting with Dís. He can only presume that perhaps Ori has the rest of the picture in hand. 

"I'm sure that you'll think of something," Bofur says reassuringly. "At the most, when Nori's back, you could head back down here to manage things. Y'do seem to be doing that well."

"And you'll live away from your shop and the mines?" Bilbo asked, surprised. "The hobbit holes will all be repaired sooner or later, and then there'll be no use for a miner here and-"

"Oh, there's always use for someone who's a deft hand with wood," Bofur points out, with a complacent smile, and that's true, at least. "And I won't mind so much being away - it's been a nice change." 

"Ah," Bilbo begins, then his ears start to pink, and he fumbles his words, clutching at Bofur's shoulder: there's nothing he can say to that, not really - they kiss, and it's slower this time, an understanding, though even through the tender warmth Bilbo feels his misgivings remain. Uncertainly, he murmurs, when they part, "Perhaps I should return first, and I'll send you word." 

"Now, why should we do that?" Bofur asks, a little surprised. "We're heading back to Ered Luin, not into the wilderness." 

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip, for a long moment, then he kisses Bofur again instead of explaining, though the knowledge sits heavy in his gut. He has to see Nori's claims for himself.


	12. Chapter 12

XXIII.

The way up back to Ered Luin had been quiet, and Bofur seemed to be in high spirits - or perhaps he was just trying to cheer Bilbo up. Bilbo had been too distracted to see the difference, and he had kept up only monosyllabic responses all the way up through the night gate. He _had_ seen Bofur shoot curious glances at the guards, but nothing seemed out of place - at least up until Bilbo had, in his distraction, led them down the street towards the Guild headquarters rather than towards Bofur's shop.

They're just rounding a bend in the streets, placing them in sight of the Skylark taverns, when Bofur abruptly sidesteps his pony, placing himself between the taverns and Bilbo. Bilbo starts to protest, then he hesitates when Bofur mutters, "Y'should go. _Now_."

Bilbo's been trained to act reasonably first and observe later from a safe angle, and he steps off his pony while pulling his hood over his eyes, and melts quickly into the late afternoon crowd. When he's back half a street, he turns - just in time to see a pair of guardsmen approach Bofur and what now looks to be just a lead pony with supplies. 

"Tavern's closed?" Bofur asks, sounding only mildly curious. 

"It's under investigation," says one of the two armed guardsmen, sounding neutral and firm. "It'll be closed for a bit."

"Under investigation?" Bofur sounds surprised. "Over what?" 

The guardsman grunts. His partner, younger and less experienced, perhaps, looks away, as though embarrassed, but the first guard's expression doesn't change. "You know what Nori's Guild is about. They might put a pretty name on it but everyone knows that they're thieves, to the bone. I s'pose they finally slipped up. Nori's done a runner in the night, but we've got his brothers in custody and as many of his slippery little friends as we could round out - not that we got many. Move along now."

Bofur does, and Bilbo tails him for a couple of streets before finally slipping back into view in the guise of a passer-by. To Bofur's credit, instead of making a scene, Bofur just murmurs, "Looks like your Guild's in a right spot of trouble."

Ori and Dori in prison! And everyone! Nori couldn't have known, or he would never have left Ered Luin. Bilbo's mind is in a whirl - he needs to sit somewhere quiet and have a think about it and-

"Best we split up," Bofur adds, in the same low tone. "Meet at my place." 

"If you're sure-"

"Of course I am," Bofur says firmly, then he hesitates. "Though, 'course, if you see something not right about it when you're coming by, then don't come through. I'll understand."

"I'm going to have a bit of a nose around the city," Bilbo murmurs, straightening up. "I'll meet you at your place. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, just be careful," Bofur presses his heels into the sides of his pony, and it speeds up into a trot. 

Bilbo spends a frustrating afternoon poking about the city, painfully aware that he's rusty and worse - that this is rather out of his usual comfort zone. He's used to the wilds and to the abandoned Shire - to Bree-land, to the fisher towns. He's always mentally regarded Ered Luin as a safe zone, full of friends. It's hard to see it as anything sinister. Hard to be careful. 

He finds Lily, holed up in her cousin Pensie's brewery, at least. "This isn't a good place for you to be," he tells her first, when Pensie shows him into the cellar. "They'll be checking all our known associates."

"I know, I was just here to get sorted. I'm off today." Lily looks him over anxiously. "Did Nori get out all right?"

"The last I saw, yes. What happened?"

"The guards came the day after he was gone. Closed up the place, locked up whoever was inside. I had been out in the marketplace on my break - when I came back, I saw the guards everywhere and thought I might as well make myself scarce. I got the word out to everyone who wasn't in, and we all hid." 

"How many of us were caught?"

"Along than Ori and Dori - 'bout twelve. It was just the cleaning and stable staff and a few of us about doing the reports." 

Bilbo nods. The rest of the Guild doesn't usually hang about in the Guild unless they have a reason to be there, if only because sometimes Nori looks for 'volunteers' for his non-quota tasks - and thinks it cheaper to use off-duty Guild members as messengers rather than get a raven. "Everyone else is safe?"

"Far as I know." 

"Looks like you'll best be telling me what else you've got," Bilbo says finally, with a sigh. "Nori just told me to speak to Ori, but that might not be doable for now." 

"I don't know, I was just back from the fisher town," Lily admitted. "It's been a bit rough here in the city. There's been unhappy talk over the tax. No one's seen the King for a while. Some in the Guild have been wondering whether there'll be a Guild for much longer, seeing as the Shire's now back in business, but Nori hadn't looked like he was going to close up. We've been doing runs over in the fisher towns and further past into Bree-land."

"And?"

"And some of us - I heard - got assigned to watching a few ins and outs of the administration Hall," Lily murmurs. "I don't know who, though."

"Do you know where the others are?"

Lily only knew the whereabouts of her closest friends, which, Bilbo decided, was good enough for now. He didn't dare go about checking on everyone, in case he inadvertently brought trouble on their head. He'll have to do a tally of everyone sooner or-

"Are you going to bust everyone out of jail?" Lily asks then, her expression intent. "I could round up my friends, and between us all, we can get everyone up over at the Harfoot pub and-"

"Wait, the Harfoot's pub?"

And Lily explains that Ferumbras and the older hobbits have been warmer towards the Guild to late, and a trifle suspicious of Thorin, and in the days leading up to Nori's departure, Ferumbras and his messengers had been seen now and then over at the Guild, always with some sort of private business. Bilbo purses his lips. Lily has fair instincts - everyone in the Guild does - and if she thinks Ferumbras can be trusted, that aligns with Bilbo's opinion.

Still, he had never thought this would happen to the Guild, either. Ori and Dori and the rest, imprisoned! He'll have to be careful. Ferumbras had been so distracted when Bilbo had last seen him.

"Get somewhere safe," he says finally. "I'll have to think about whether we should make a move on the prison. Most importantly, I need to know what's happening inside it, to our friends. See if anyone knows Nori's contacts."

"All right," Lily notes doubtfully. "I'll try."

"What about Nori's records? In the Guild?"

"Everything's been confiscated," Lily confesses. "Pensie told me. A friend of a friend of hers kept an eye out."

Bilbo nods - he had expected this much. "We'll have to stay in contact somehow - do you know where you'll be going?"

"I've got another place next to the bakery on Spools Street," Lily hesitates, for a moment, then adds, "Be careful. If they're out to arrest all of us, you're probably on the top of their list." 

"I'm going to need to get a message out through raven to Paladin too, and Nori," Bilbo wishes that he hadn't left the raven with Paladin before coming back.

"I'll take care of that," Lily assures him. "I've got a friend whose cousin works over at the raven roosts." Her eyes narrow a little, hardening. "And if you need me with you when we get our people out of lock up, just say the word."

XXIV.

Ferumbras lets out a stifled squeak of surprise when he finds Bilbo waiting for him in the parlour of his home when he comes home for the day, but instead of running away, he steps hurriedly to Bilbo, looking him over. "Oh, you're all right! Thank Yavanna!"

Bilbo relaxes a fraction. "Nori told me to come home."

"Well, I can't say it's at the best of times," Ferumbras says anxiously. "You've seen what's happened to the Guild? I protested - loudly protested - but Thorin said that it was for the good of Ered Luin and-"

"So you've seen Thorin?"

"Why, yes," Ferumbras blinks, "I demanded an audience when they put your Guild members in prison. Made quite a scene, but I was firm." 

"Have you seen Thorin before that? Since we left for the Shire?"

"Well," Ferumbras looks thrown for a moment, wavering, "Come to think of it, no. But it's not too unusual, you see, hobbit affairs and dwarf affairs don't always intersect, and Balin's always been a fair enough um, substitute, y'see, not everything requires the King's attention."

"So how was Thorin?" Nori was right, then. 

"Little pale? Tired? He was in a poor mood, though," Ferumbras recalls nervously. "Angry. Impatient. He said that he had plans. Great plans, for Ered Luin. Plans that needed thorough funding and full support, and he had taken steps to quell the 'troublemakers', that's what he called the Guild. Y'see, Nori's been making a pest of himself, snooping about the administration Hall, but, um, that's just Nori, really, and I didn't think, well, I didn't think Thorin would react like this and-"

"Did he do it because Nori had left?"

"Well, he did rail on about how Nori had clearly run off on some sort of conspiracy of some sort," Ferumbras notes with a sigh. "He couldn't be swayed."

"How's everyone in the prison?"

"I've been to check on them. Just a few days ago. They're all fine. A little shaken, that's all. I tried to get Thorin to agree to have some hobbits in as part of the guard, for the sake of diversity, but he wouldn't agree."

"Did he have the Ring on him? A golden Ring?"

"No. Not that I could see. Why?"

"Just a thought," Bilbo murmurs, nibbling on his lower lip. What a mess! If only Nori wasn't off chasing after the Wizard's shadow! He'll need to get Nori word... no. He was acting Guildmaster. He would send Nori word, but he would have to handle this himself. "When Nori spoke to me, he told me that Ori knew 'the rest'. I need to at least speak to Ori."

"Well," Ferumbras says helplessly, "I'm not sure what I can do to help you with that." 

"Doesn't the Gamgee clan handle the cleaning and maintenance contract for the Administration Hall? If you could acquire their assistance, that would be a great help."

"All right." Ferumbras squares his broad, stout shoulders. "You leave that with me." 

"And," Bilbo adds thoughtfully, "I'm going to need to know what Thorin's plans are."

"I've already started making my own enquiries on that front." Ferumbras shakes his head slowly. "I can't imagine what he'll need all that gold for. Plans, indeed! What has the world come to? This is so very much unlike Thorin!"

It was indeed, and Bilbo picks his way carefully back to Bofur's shop with a heavy heart. The shop is closed, though Bilbo knows his way about, and he lets himself down to the living quarters underground easily enough, even though he's never been past the shop. Normally, Bilbo thinks, he'll be nervous by now, but too much has happened just over the past day, and he's still preoccupied as he walks into Bofur's rooms. 

Like many utilitarian dwarf spaces, it's orderly and sectioned off neatly into different cubical rooms, connected by corridors, hewn into the stone itself. Bofur's mining tools have been orderly stacked in a store room, off the side, and from the main living space Bilbo can also see the bedroom, to the north, and a kitchen with a vent, to his left. There's a soft, old rug on the ground, and racks for mining gear - Bilbo hangs up his cloak and turns just in time to see Bofur peek out from behind the kitchen, looking relieved. 

"No hat," Bilbo notes, and grins - Bofur does look a trifle odd, hatless - the woollen hat is on the rack.

"I _am_ home," Bofur points out, walking over to pull Bilbo into his arms - he smells comfortably of cooking stew, and Bilbo snuggles close for a moment. "Besides, the oil'd get into it. Did you find out anything?"

"It looks like I might have to break into the prison," Bilbo admits, as he lets Bofur sit him down at the small round kitchen table. A pot is bubbling in the fireplace, and there's a small pie on the counter and a keg of beer in the corner, all new - Bilbo finds himself starting to grin. "You didn't have to go to all this expenditure for me."

"For you? Who said that you were eating?" Bofur grins, and he kisses Bilbo on the temple before going to check on the stew. "I had a talk with some of the lads at the mines. Everyone's pulling double shifts now. Thorin's orders. We're tunnelling through to the old stone, which isn't safe."

"Isn't _safe_?" Bilbo repeats, aghast.

"Aye. It be true that there might be precious metal beyond it, but it's right treacherous ground full of pockets of gas, and originally, Thorin's grandfather had said not to chance it." Bofur snorts. "It's true that we've had some inventions since to make it safer out in the mines, but it's still going to be hard going. No one's happy about it. You're going to break into prison? People usually break _out_ of prison."

So Bilbo explains about Ori, and Ferumbras, and then they're having dinner, and although the stew's rich with meat and flavour he can't really bring himself to enjoy it. He eats just enough to fill his stomach, has a slice of cherry pie, and only has a pint of beer when Bofur insists, caught in his thoughts.

"I could help there," Bofur notes finally. "Getting you into prison."

"Getting into prison would be easy," Bilbo points out dryly. "Getting out again after is the difficult part."

"Oh aye, I knew that. I meant, everyone knows that the prison's been cut into bedrock, but there's ways about into the adjoining quarters, and-"

"And it'll be too obvious. Good idea, though. But it'll take too long," Bilbo says with a sigh. "And it'll be obvious who did it. No, getting in and out of prison isn't going to be impossible, unless I'm planning on breaking everyone out, but Ferumbras said that everyone's been treated all right for now. I just need to speak to Ori."

"If I could help-"

"You're doing enough right now," Bilbo interrupts, but at Bofur's stubborn expression, he sighs. "I just need you to help keep an eye out. I need to know what Thorin's planning." 

"I s'pose I could do that," Bofur notes doubtfully. "Also, Bombur's hiding a couple of your friends. I could help arrange for places for everyone else, if they need it. Bifur and I have a lot of contacts."

"We might need to create a way to get out of Ered Luin unnoticed," Bilbo adds, as an afterthought. "Or, in and out of Ered Luin, as it were." 

"You can leave that with me as well," Bofur squeezes his palm. "And don't you start apologisin' about having pulled me into any trouble. Your trouble is my trouble too." 

"Thank you," Bilbo doesn't quite know what to say to that - squeezing Bofur's palm back with a warm smile. "One thing that I was wondering... Bofur, would the Princess inherit, if Thorin had to... step down?"

"Why," Bofur blinks, "No. Though if she had children, her male son would be the next in line."

"But why's that? She's capable."

"Ah," Bofur notes uncomfortably, "Y'see, us dwarves, we aren't as modern as you hobbits in some ways. The King has always been a male dwarf, and that's the way it'll be, and-"

"And it can't be changed?" How strange! Other than this, dwarves hadn't seemed to have paid the concept of gender very much thought at all, in terms of the rest of their society. Maybe it was an anachronism.

"We-ell, I don't think a fair number of dwarves would stand for it..."

"Who else is in line, if Thorin is no longer King? If his father's still not mentally capable?"

"Well... Dáin Ironfoot of the Iron Hills," Bofur decides, after a long moment. "But he's a fair distance away from here, close to Erebor, and I doubt he would be minded to take over Ered Luin's government. He's got enough problems of his own, being so close to the dragon. Why?"

"Nothing." It had been a nice, sudden thought that perhaps there was a more prosaic outside force after all. "Just wondering who might want Thorin out of power, normally."

"I can't think of anyone," Bofur lifts a shoulder into a shrug. "He was a fair king, before he started to get crazy ideas. Why?"

If all reasonable explanations were eliminated... or had they all been? Bilbo wasn't sure if he had enough information yet to conclude that the Ring was definitely the problem: it seems unbelievable that a piece of jewellery could cause Thorin to so radically change as a dwarf. Could the process be reversed, if it _was_ the Ring? He wasn't sure if he wanted to rely just on Gandalf's say-so. "I was just trying to understand the whole picture, Bofur. Blast! We've been away from Ered Luin only for weeks, and it feels like _years_." 

Then again, if it was just the Ring... well. The solution to that was simple enough. In theory. Or was it? Offering a silent prayer to Yavanna that Nori would find the Wizard, Bilbo decides to push his doubts about Thorin aside for now. First, he needs to find a way in and out of prison.


	13. Chapter 13

XXV.

The Old Longbottom was bustling, and what's worse, to Bilbo's dismay, just about everyone recognised him instantly, even though he tried to sit diffidently in a corner and hide his face. There was a constant stream of hobbits with enquiries, mostly about the Shire, about recovery rights and progress and remains and safety and more, until Bilbo's head was quite in a flurry and he hadn't even gotten into the business of the evening yet.

In the end, it was Ferumbras who saved him, pushing his way through the crowd by bulk alone, towing a stocky, sandy-haired hobbit behind him. The Thain balanced precariously up on his feet in a failed attempt to look taller, and raised his voice, "Settle down, settle down! This isn't the right time for all this! Attend the Thain's office tomorrow morning in the Administration Hall and I'll get everyone's concerns sorted. Settle down!" 

It took a lot of shooing and shushing, but eventually, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed, and Ferumbras and his guest sat down at Bilbo's table. The Thain looked a little shamefaced. "I'm rather sorry, Bilbo, I really should have known this would have happened. Your face isn't exactly unfamiliar to everyone."

"It's quite all right. They do have a right to know about the Shire efforts," Bilbo replies, if in a low tone. "I'll give you whatever information you need-"

"Oh no, the Shire is fine. Everything there's sat nicely for years and it'll sit nicely for days more if it has to," Ferumbras interrupts, if with a sidelong glance to either direction as if to check for listeners. "I'll just get poor young Yarrow to write down everything and then I'll attend to their queries in due course. Now, you said you wanted to talk to one of the Gamgees? This is Hamfast."

"Pleased t'meet you," Hamfast bobs his head, clearly confused. "The Thain said you wants a word with me, I can't see why, Mister Baggins, I can't." 

"You weren't going to dress up as one of the cleaning crews and sneak in there, were you?" Ferumbras asks, doubtfully. "Because, if you pardon me for saying, your face is going to be just as recognisable in the Hall as it is out here."

"There are tricks around that," Bilbo notes wryly, "But I'm not so sure that they're needed. Hamfast, are your crews even attending to the prisons at present?"

"Well, no," Hamfast admits, blinking, "But how did you know that?"

"It seemed like a logical step for Thorin to take. The dwarves aren't stupid. Getting in with the cleaning crew is going to be an obvious security breach, especially if the crew's run all by hobbits," Bilbo sighs. "No, what I want from Hamfast is a detailed description of the Hall patrol patterns. You may not be attending to the prisons now, but you did before, and the dwarves tend to like custom and schedules. They might not have changed the patrol patterns."

"That's a rather hazy thing to proceed on," Ferumbras protests, but Hamfast's already leaning forward as Bilbo spreads out a set of maps on the table, all procured from Bofur, through Bifur, of all people. Miners are oft friendly with engineers, who in turn are friendly with architects, and a set of old Hall plans had been 'borrowed' just hours before and carefully copied before being returned.

Bilbo won't be taking the plans with him - he's already memorised them. With Hamfast's help, he sketches out in his mind the most likely patrol routes, as well as the best way to get into the Hall (fairly) unnoticed. "I'll just bring you in as a new clerk," Ferumbras says, at this point. "There'll be a big queue over in my office tomorrow from all the hobbits interested in the Shire, I warrant, so you could probably 'misplace' yourself about then." Ferumbras hesitates. "If you're truly certain that you can, ah, disguise your face, and, well, I'm not very sure if it is going to be _safe_ , going down into prison, and-"

"I'll be fine," Bilbo assures Ferumbras.

"Oh," the Thain fusses with his sleeve for a little, picking a thread, then he sighs. "It might be safer for me just to speak to Ori. Surely I won't be barred from the prison."

"Aye, but Thorin will want to have someone present when you're there," Bilbo points out, "And Ori might decide not to tell you anything of note. Stop worrying, Ferumbras," he adds, more soothingly, "I've spent years hiding from orcs and goblins. What will Thorin do if I'm caught, eh?" 

"Well," Hamfast notes, "You'll probably be thrown right into a cell, Mister Baggins."

"And I doubt there's any cell that I can't get out of if I'm of a mind," Bilbo points out, trying to sound more confident than he feels. Lockpick training was years ago, and he's a little rusty. More than a little. 

He manages to placate Ferumbras and Hamfast, but not Bofur when he gets home at long last. Bofur, who studies him thoughtfully for a long moment, head tilted, during their evening meal, before putting down his spoon with deliberate care. "So that's all t'your plan? You were just going to... improvise?"

"Improvisation is an art," Bilbo tries his best, nonchalant smile, but Bofur is unmoved, and eventually, under that searching, reproachful stare, Bilbo adds, dryly, "Really, Master Bofur, I wouldn't rate this harder than the wilds."

"You've got plenty more places to hide out there than here."

"Ah, that," Bilbo notes mildly, "Just shows that you haven't thought about it hard enough. Don't worry," he adds, even as Bofur starts to frown, "There'll be lots of hobbits milling about the Hall tomorrow, if we see it right. One more hobbit among the rest won't go amiss."

"One more hobbit _would_ , if he took his furry little feet down t'the prison levels where he'll be spotted."

"We walk more softly than a dwarf, _and_ I know where the patrols go, and when," Bilbo disagrees, then he adds, "And you won't be coming with me."

"I knows that," Bofur says evenly, and although there's no irritation in his expression Bilbo can sense an edge to his tone. "I knows that I can't help you in this, though I wish I could, I wish that you would let me-"

"The map was a great help, and aren't you and Bombur looking into finding a secondary way out of Ered Luin?"

"That's just work along the edges," Bofur retorts, in the same even tone, "While your toes be hanging in the fire."

"I'm quite used to the sensation-"

"No, no you're not," Bofur sighs, "Can't ye see that? You've never gone sneakin' about a heavily guarded dwarf hold before. It be nothing like the woods, I can tell you. Nothing like the fisher towns or Bree-land. And the way the King's been carrying on, I can't imagine what might happen if you'll get caught. Or, or rather, I _can_ imagine, and it's _all_ horrible."

"Bofur," Bilbo too, sets down his spoon, "I would really rather not have a disagreement about this - or about anything at all - before I have to... do what I have to do tomorrow. Please?"

"I thought you had some sort of grand plan," Bofur digs his heels in, stubborn, at the very end of it, like any other dwarf. "I thought maybe y'were going to dress up like one of the Gamgees or somethin'..."

"That plan went rather off the table at the outset, seeing as they're not minding the prison cells," Bilbo says gently, abandoning the rest of his dinner to go to Bofur's side. Bofur's chair, like most of his furniture, is made of stone, sturdy even when Bilbo climbs onto his lap to curl one of Bofur's braids around a thumb and forefinger. "You've trusted me all these years to come back to Ered Luin."

"Not without worrying," Bofur murmurs, his tone gruff as he shifts Bilbo more firmly onto his lap, his big hands going to Bilbo's hips, squeezing lightly; they kiss, wet and awkward for a moment before Bilbo adjusts, tipping Bofur's chin towards him to fit their lips together, to curl his tongue over parting teeth and press the flat of it against Bofur's tongue. Bofur sighs, muffled and soft as he gives. 

"Pity," Bilbo breathes, when they part for breath.

"What?" Bofur sounds a little dazed, and Bilbo grins to himself.

"Well, that I have business that needs soft walking tomorrow," Bilbo glances up, with arch innocence, canting his hips forward and dragging a low gasp from Bofur and a jerk. "Or I should have liked to see how a tight a fit you might've proved me to be."

Surprisingly enough, Bofur merely stares at him blankly. "A fit?"

"This?" Bilbo reaches behind him, to cup the definite swell in Bofur's breeches lightly, and Bofur's look of confusion doesn't fade. Realization dawns slow and hungry and for a long moment Bilbo is tempted, so _very_ tempted, but duty has always borne heavy on his shoulders and he swallows the stir of lust with some difficulty. "Never mind," he says finally, leaning up for a brushing kiss. "I'll explain it in full when there's a time and place. But for now," he adds, with a playful smirk, reaching between them both for the laces on Bofur's breeches, "I think I'll best take care of a bit of... tension."

Bofur laughs at that, and pulls him close, too tightly to be comfortable, for a heartbeat, then he kisses Bilbo fiercely; the taste of desperation, Bilbo thinks, will ever sit lovely on Bofur's lips.

XXVI.

Despite seemingly everyone's dire predictions, a bit of ink in his hair, pads in his cheeks, paint and powder turn Bilbo from a hobbit in his prime into a seemingly elderly, confused hobbit, pudgy, milky-eyed and short-sighted, walking with the help of a cane. This probably would get him out of any first instance problems, Bilbo thinks, and thanks Nori quietly in his mind for all the forced costuming training.

A borrowed set of old clothes, donated from the Gamgees, completes the disguise. He had elected not to follow Ferumbras to the Hall after all - better not to call attention to himself - but had instead mingled with the growing crowd of hobbits trying to queue in an orderly way around Ferumbras' office, and had slipped away when the guards had tried to restore order. It was early enough in the day that the patrols were still switching between the night and dawn rosters, and Bilbo slipped down two floors with little incident. 

So far, so good.

The prison floor was down a separate wing of the lower levels of the Hall, with only one possible entrance or exit, which would probably prove tricky even for the best of professional thieves, in theory - or at least, thieves who _didn't_ know the approximate timing of the arrival of the slop wagon. Pulled by a pair of dwarven guards who looked none too happy about the work, the slop wagon would go in with the prisoners' breakfast - probably gruel, judging by the look of the heavy iron pots on the wagon.

At least they weren't going to use the wagon for nightsoil as well... hopefully. Bilbo ducked quietly under the wagon as it passed where he was hidden in a side corridor leading to a storage room, and crept under it, bent almost on hands and knees, as the wagon passed the guardroom, then it was through. Guards were unloading the pots, and in the hubbub from the cells Bilbo stole away quickly, keeping to the thick shadows away from the lanterns. 

The prison was barely full, even with all its newcomers - most of the hobbits had been put together into the large holding cells, nine of them, all administrative staff. The dwarves were nowhere to be seen - presumably further down the line, and Bilbo watched the guards doling out the gruel into bowls, his stomach squirming a little in sympathy. There was nothing he could do but wait, grinning now and then to himself as a hobbit cheerfully insulted his or her captors and the food, and it seemed like an eternity before all the guards seemed accounted for, the wagon and empty pots trundled back out.

Ered Luin - at least until recently - clearly had little use for its prisons. Dwarves were an uncommonly law abiding folk, as were hobbits, usually, and most small misunderstandings could be cleared up with fines or rebukes. The prisons were usually used just as storage or for a place where the drunk and disorderly could sleep off a rowdy binge, and many of the disused cells still had hay, barrels or crates in them. Good. 

The corridors were clean, at least, but the prison stank of close quarters and barely sufficient sanitation and unwashed bodies, and Bilbo tried to breathe shallowly and quietly as he looked about himself, then stepped over to the large holding cells. For a long moment, the hobbits stared at him in surprise, then Bluebell, Dori's default, elderly general assistant for minding injuries and the kitchens, said, slowly, "Bilbo?"

"How could you tell?" Bilbo grins.

"Nobody else would've tried something insane like this save for your mum," Bluebell drawls, and hisses at the others to hush them as they cluster close. "Are you here t'get us out?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid," Bilbo notes regretfully, "But I'm working on it. Is everyone all right?"

"Oh, _we're_ all right," grunts Emery Bolger, the stablehand, "But they b'aint interested in _us_. You'll best be headin' through to check on the young Master."

"And Dori," Bluebell adds quickly. "And Gunnar."

" _Gunnar_?" Bilbo asks, surprised. "What on earth is he doing here?" 

"Well, he was out of his smithy to come by to drop off some drawings for some new ideas he had about the bolters," Bluebell notes wryly, "And he got snatched up like the rest of us."

"Oh, well," Bilbo blinks a little. "This changes things." 

"Aye," Emery says gruffly, "You best be talking to him before he blows us all up by way of gettin' us out of here or sumthin'."

"He only blew up the stables _once_ ," Bilbo points out defensively, though Emery snorts, and Bilbo murmurs his goodbyes quick a quick glance towards the guard door, and steals away further down the corridor. 

He finds Gunnar sitting rather dolefully by himself, several cells down, though the Guild's main smith and engineer brightens up when he sees Bilbo approach. "Now, who might you be? Paladin? Prim? Bilbo?"

"Your last guess," Bilbo notes dryly. "Clearly this disguise isn't working."

"Pssh, I know your Guild's methods. I designed many of them, after all, and more importantly, I know you lot." Gunnar says comfortably. Rather like Frerin, he has unusual, tawny gold hair, although at present it's matted and filthy; and he grins, good-humoured and irrepressible. One of his beard braids has come undone, and the effect has poor Gunnar looking a trifle lopsided, but it doesn't seem to have dampened the engineer's spirits. "They got most of me tools when they searched me."

"But not all?"

"You'll be surprised how many guards forget to check the hems of clothes," Gunnar shrugs. "Are we going?"

"Not yet. There's the guard room."

"Oh, there's you, an' me, an' old Dori, we'll do fine with the element of surprise." 

"I'll rather not take the risk as yet. It's still broad daylight out there. I'm here to speak to Ori."

Gunnar nods, looking only a little disappointed. "Well, you'll best be going then, laddie. No, don't apologize. I'm quite comfortable where I am, just a wee bit bored, that's all." 

"And things tend to explode when you're bored."

"Oh, that's hurtful, that is," Gunnar grins, with a little wink, and Bilbo's shaking his head as he heads off further into the jail. Nori had always said, with varying degrees of irritation, that Gunnar needed a real dragon of a wife to ground him, or someday his 'but I was just a wee bit bored' experiments might blow up his smithy and/or the Guild. "I'll have you know-" 

The distant clang of a the heavy door opening and closing shuts him up, and Bilbo looks around sharply before ducking quickly into an empty cell beside Gunnar, stacked with what looks like water barrels, probably for the prisoner. The heavy, jingling tread of dwarves in armour approaches, even as Bilbo racks his memory for patrols - as far as Hamfast was aware, there _weren't_ any hourly patrols past the guardpost - what was the point, when there was only one exit? A visitor, then. But who?

His question answers itself as the voices grow louder. "-Balin has not yet returned," comes the gruff, low rumble of Dwalin. "Nor has he sent a raven."

"You are suspicious?" 

Bilbo shrinks down further where he sits, forcing himself to swallow his surprise. That grave, imperious tone. _Thorin_.

"Should I have any cause to be? Your sister holds the Shire."

There's a pause, then Thorin's retort seems sharp. "Dwalin, if you suspect anything at all-"

" _No_ , Thorin, I do not," Dwalin cuts in, his tone flat, "Mahal, what is wrong with you? It is not like you to jump at every shadow!"

"You over-step yourself," Thorin notes coolly, and Bilbo feels as though he shouldn't breathe at all - the voices pause briefly outside his cell, then move on.

"Aye, I see that," Dwalin retorts, though the insolence is clear in his tone even if his words are conciliatory. "What more do you want here? It's obvious that Nori's brothers know nothing of whatever fell plan you are certain that he has conceived."

"The fact that neither of them would tell me where Nori has gone is suspicious enough. I've long felt that Nori's Guild has been a destabilising faction-"

"Thorin-"

"But as yet," Thorin continues coldly, "I am withholding judgment. Come now, Dwalin-"

Their voices fade away, and Bilbo grits his teeth, swallowing his temper. A destabilising faction, indeed! 

"Y'still there, Mister Baggins?" Gunnar murmurs from his cell.

"Aye... does Thorin visit regularly?"

"As clockwork. And I best be telling you," Gunnar adds, as an afterthought, "I think he be growing impatient for an answer from that wee lad." 

Bilbo sighs. Maybe it can't be helped. "Do you have anything on your person that's explosive, as of this point in time?"

"I might of have something that might be," Gunnar hedges, though Bilbo can hear the grin in his voice. "Given the right application."

"Right. I may be in need of a distraction."


	14. Chapter 14

XXVII.

Threats wise, Kings didn't seem to be particularly creative. Bilbo had crept as close as he dared to Ori's cell before ducking into a spare one to wait for Gunnar's distraction, having set up what he could scrounge up just before. All the supplies in his pouch and belt were for use against orcs, or for escape, and wouldn't do him much good here, more's the pity. He doesn't want to kill or hurt any of the dwarven guards. They're not his enemy.

Thorin had just escalated into threatening Ori with treason and his brother with a hanging. Bilbo shakes his head, grimacing as Ori shouts back, too angry to be awed by royalty, drowning out even his older brother's voice. That boy. Scribe-work might be where his older brothers had squared him away, but young Ori has pluck and courage, and it mightn't be enough for him someday, Bilbo thinks. 

If he doesn't talk himself into an _early_ appointment with the hangman's noose, that is. Even if Ered Luin had such a thing. But by the way Thorin's voice is rising, it seems like the king might well decide to make an exception, or build the hangman's scaffold himself-

A muffled _boom_ down the corridor cuts Thorin's snarled threats abruptly to silence, leaving only startled wariness in its wake. "Dwalin?" Thorin asks, after a long, cautious moment. 

"Aye, I'll take a look." Dwalin agrees gruffly, and Bilbo can hear Dwalin's stride - long, steady, assured - and then Dwalin's cursing and there's a loud _thump_ as he catches the tripwire that Bilbo had strung out across the bars of two facing cells, where the shadows lay deepest between the lanterns. 

Dwarves are nothing if resilient, though - Dwalin's starting to struggle to his feet, having caught a nasty bump on his chin, but Bilbo's already darting out, muttering a brief apology to Dwalin as he lands with a bound on Dwalin's back, grasping the growling, struggling dwarven warrior's shaven skull and rapping it smartly on the stone at _just_ the right angle. Dwalin's great, broad-shouldered body twitches, then goes still, unconscious.

One down. 

"Dwalin? What on-" The rest of Thorin's words are swallowed in a crash and a yelp, then a heavy _thunk_ and a crash of mail and metal. Afraid of what he would find, Bilbo darts quickly around the curve in the stone corridor that'll bring him to Ori's cell, and laughs when he finds Thorin slumped against the bars to Dori's cell, unconscious.

Dori lets go of the grip he had on Thorin's heavy, rich fur cloak, and sniffs. "Wearing that silly thing indoors, within reach of prisoners, why, I never. You're rather late, Mister Baggins."

"Yes, well, I only learned of all this to-do a day or so ago," Bilbo replies mildly, as he pats Thorin down. No keys. "How are you, Ori?"

Ori's staring at Bilbo, round-eyed, still shocked, then he grins from ear to ear. "You came! I knew you would. Nori always said that we could rely on you if he wasn't here." 

"He told me that you had something for me... but we'll deal with that later. Thorin doesn't have the keys. Maybe Dwalin?" 

Bilbo steps back, about to head over to check Dwalin, when Dori adds, "The keys probably will be with the guards."

"Ah, no matter." Bilbo gets out his lockpicks. He's a little rusty, but the locks click open eventually as he tickles the well-made tumblers within them, and Dori drags Thorin into the cell at Bilbo's gesture, even as Bilbo works on Ori's door. Dwalin is dragged into Ori's cell, and then, as an afterthought, Bilbo steps back over to Thorin, disarming him and shoving the battleaxes into Dori's hands. Thorin groans, still unconscious, his head turning, and a loop of gold slips free from under his collar, bound to his neck by a length of chain.

The Ring.

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo undoes the clasp at Thorin's neck, then he drops the Ring into a pouch, careful not to touch it, before backing out of the cell and locking it, just as Ori awkwardly locks Dwalin into his own, looking shamefaced even as he does so. Dori makes as if to drop the axes on the ground, when Bilbo notes, "Don't we need to be armed?"

"We're compounding breaking out of jail with stealing from the King?" Dori protests.

"Well, steal from Dwalin if you'll prefer... oh, all right. Just leave the axes here then," Bilbo sighs, not wanting to get into an argument with the notoriously stubborn Dori. "Come on."

Gunnar's in considerably better spirits now that something has exploded - some manner of a small firework that he has, somehow, had cause to conceal in the hem of his jacket, of all things, and he clasps hands with Bilbo once he's let out of the cell, then Dori and Ori. "So we have a plan for getting out of here now, do we?"

"No. Still improvising," Bilbo mutters. "Honestly, I didn't think I was going to have to cause all this to-do the first time. I was really just here to check on Ori and Dori." He pauses, a trifle uncomfortably. "Oh dear! Maybe I've overreacted." 

"I knew it," Dori says dourly. "Should we just head back to our cells and lock ourselves in, then?"

"Well, you can't, yours is full of dwarven royalty and Ori's is full of semi-royalty," Bilbo retorts dryly, as they get to the holding cells. "I suppose there's nothing to it. I doubt they'll be right pleased when they wake up, so would you both just please be content with the rescue in progress? Thank you."

"Is he always like this on a job?" Gunnar stage-whispered to Dori behind Bilbo's back, as Bilbo works on the lock to the holding cell.

"I've heard tales," Dori whispers back, even as Bilbo gets the door open and Bluebell hustles the others out. Everyone seems well, other than a few bruises here and then, and Bilbo relaxes, the knot of tension that he hadn't realized that he'd had in his belly relaxing. They haven't been mistreated in the cells, at least.

"So, element of surprise?" Bilbo asks Gunnar, when they reach the end of the corridor and the exit to the guard room.

"Aye," Gunnar cracks his knuckles. The smith's hands are huge, and his grin, although cheerful, has the promise of violence. "Let's get to it, eh?"

Rather to Dori's equally dour surprise, the fight does go quickly and well in their favour. Not expecting an attack from within the prison, and having left the door unlocked due to Thorin and Dwalin's visit, the guards are quickly overwhelmed and knocked out. None of them even raise the alarm - although Bilbo's sure that will just be a matter of time. The guard patrols will probably check on the room and-

"Now what?" Dori asks. 

"Now," Bilbo looks around, as an idea strikes, "You put on this dwarf's armour, while Ori wears this suit, and Gunnar wears this one, and you're going to escort all of us prisoners out, on account of us hobbits being of no use to anyone where matters of State and Treason are involved. We'll hide the bodies of the guards over in the cupboards and under the table to the right." 

"You," Gunnar notes, even as Ori grins and Dori shakes his head and bends to the task of stripping down the guards, "Love dressing up far too much, young Master Baggins."

"If we get out," Bilbo addresses Bluebell, ignoring Gunnar.

" _If_ ," Dori echoes.

"-scatter, and don't go home - go to a friend's house, or if you need to, go to the Old Longbottom," Bilbo ignores Dori as well. "Understand? Everyone? You're all going to have to lie low for a while. Don't try to contact anyone on Guild business. We'll contact you if we need you. Stay safe."

There's a series of nods, even as Dori has to help Ori with the buckles of his bracers and Gunnar struggles a little trying to fit a smaller set of mail over his chest. The final effect is comical - Ori's guard armour is too large, his sleeves swallowing his hands, Gunnar's is a trifle too small, and Ori walks so awkwardly with the battleaxe at his hip that Bilbo very nearly gives up on the proposed ruse altogether. 

Still. They're riding luck now, and fate, and it's been good to them so far. He squares his shoulders, closes his eyes as he remembers the circuits of patrols, and nods to Dori. They have some time to get to the next level, hopefully unseen. 

They're challenged only once on the way up, to Dori's surprise, and this only at the top ground level, but the guards barely bother to do much more than exchange greetings with Gunnar-as-a-guard, and they head out of the Administrative Hall at a walk. Bilbo can feel the other hobbits' tension about him, and he murmurs, "If we run, we'll attract attention."

"I can see that much, Mister Baggins," Emery whispers back, though his hands are clenched, even as they step out into the afternoon sun and the warmth of the open sky.

Then their luck runs out. 

There's a shout from behind them, then another, and then the ground behind them in the Hall is abruptly thick with guards, pointing and charging. "Scatter!" Bilbo gasps, and ducks quickly forward into the sun, even as chaos erupts over the orderly floor. He can dimly hear Ferumbras shouting over the din, and then the crowd of hobbits queued outside his door turn from a semi-orderly line into a scattered, seemingly panicky mob, deftly getting into the way of the guards.

Bilbo's surprised - he hadn't thought that the Guild had that many friends - but then he's too busy to be surprised, ducking and weaving into the afternoon crowd, trying his best not to worry about the others. There's a shrill scream behind him, and more shouts, the clash of steel, but Bilbo doesn't turn about, running down several alleys and through the marketplace until he's certain that he isn't being followed: then he steals down quieter streets and into Bofur's shop.

Bofur isn't about, and Bilbo sinks down into a chair, finally catching his breath. Now that he's in the quiet, in the dark, the weight of what he's done finally presses down on him. His hand steals to the pouch at his belt, then he clenches his fists tightly and grits his teeth.

He's done it.

XXVIII.

Bilbo startles to his feet with his bolter ready when he hears a step on the stairs, then he relaxes when Bofur ambles into view, his strained face going slack with relief. The dwarf stumbles over the rest of the way, all but hauling Bilbo up from the chair he had been dozing on and into his arms, hugging him so tightly that Bilbo nearly couldn't breathe.

"Oh, thank Mahal," Bofur gasps, his voice hitching a little, then, he mutters something in Khuzdul, before adding, more softly, "Thank Mahal."

"Bofur," Bilbo presses his palms lightly on Bofur's shoulders, and then curls his arms around Bofur's neck when he isn't let go, "I think I'm going to need that route out of Ered Luin faster than I imagined."

"I thought you were just going to have a wee talk with Ori, not stage a jailbreak," Bofur mutters, though he carefully lets Bilbo down. "And then sparking off a civil _war_."

"A civil _what_?" 

And Bofur explains that tempers had been high, and the Guild had always had a bit of an uneasy position in Ered Luin, even with its contributions, so factions loyal to Thorin had struck out in the scrum, and then Thorin had announced that they were all _traitors_. It might have gone poorly for all of the Guild's remaining associates in the city... at least, up until the East Bream mine had collapsed, killing twelve miners.

"It was a bad stretch of rock," Bofur says tiredly, "We tried t'tell the King, but he wouldn't hear of it. Thought there was gold there. Gold, my beard!" 

So it goes. Anger from the mining folk and their friends and families had poured burning oil onto an already volatile situation, and now, apparently, they were in the midst of the very first dwarven civil war. "But that's terrible!" Bilbo protests, aghast. "I never intended that to happen!"

"It would have happened anyway." Bofur pulls up a chair to sit before him, knees to knees, and Bilbo realizes with a belated start that Bofur's clothes are dusty and stained, his hands caked with dirt, his face smudged. At his blink, Bofur adds, quietly, "We tried to dig out the poor bastards who were caught in the cave in. We got what was left of them, Mahal save their souls. Thorin's loyalists have got a perimeter around the Hall barricaded in - the guards have drawn back to it for now." He rubs his eyes, leaving a smear of dirt over his cheeks. "It'll be the best time for us to leave the city. The outer posts are abandoned for now."

"You're all but on the verge of collapse," Bilbo disagrees, finally reading the weariness sketched in Bofur's careful movements. "Take a... take a shower and-"

"You should've left before, during the uproar."

"I would have," Bilbo agrees, soberly, then he smiles faintly, wryly, "But I came here instead. Despite my instincts. I guess... I guess I didn't want you running after me, and then getting into trouble out there by yourself. So clean up. And then we'll go. You'll feel better, too," he adds, when Bofur wavers.

Bofur nods, though he leans over for a quick kiss before he steps away. Bilbo grabs a pack, and starts filling it with necessities and provisions for the road ahead, with water skins, dried foodstuffs, some clean clothes and more. He's just finished packing Bofur's when Bofur reappears, his face washed, in fresh clothes, and looking a touch less bone-weary. They're just about to step out when a thought occurs to Bilbo, about the mines, and explosions, about death.

"Bofur," he says, "Would you know how to use a forge?"

"Is that meant to be an insulting question?" Bofur asks, though he grins as he says it. "Every dwarven miner does. You think we cart the rock and ore back to the city?"

"All right." It was worth a try. "There's something that I need destroyed, and I think I need a forge to do it with." Hopefully that would be enough.

" _Now_?"

"Well, if not now, then, very soon."

Bofur's brow wrinkles. "There be forges outside the city, at the mines. Doubt there be many miner folk about now - everyone's at the city. We could get out of Ered Luin and then head to one of the old mines, that should do the trick. Some of the forges thereabouts mightn't yet been dismantled."

"All right. That's where we'll head first, right after the city," Bilbo decides firmly. "Do you have... any steel about, as well? That could be melted down?" 

"I s'pose I could spare an old pick." Bofur heads back down the steps, and comes up with a spare mining pick. "What's this about, then?"

"I'll tell you when we're out of Ered Luin." 

The city, now that Bilbo's less in a panic and more alert, feels... barely dormant, now. As though it's waiting. There's an ugly tension in the air, something that he's not used to, and despite the lateness of the hour, crowds are milling about, even up on the surface of Ered Luin. Bilbo doesn't want to think about what the underground situation might be like, and swallows hard. 

He's never seen Ered Luin like this before, turning in upon itself. The crowds had hobbits and dwarves alike, and it was _angry_. Its anger might be banked for now, due to the night, but it was clear that the blood that had been shed this day was heavy on everyone's minds. 

With effort, Bilbo looked away, offering a silent prayer to Yavanna that everyone was going to be all right, and leads Bofur down quieter ways towards the night gate. 

The guard post is abandoned, but even as he approaches it, there's a whispered, " _Psst!_ " from the deeper shadows in the alley next to the post. Bilbo hesitates, and after a moment, Ori's worried face becomes visible as he steps forward out of the alley. He's leading four ponies, including Myrtle, as well as Dori and Gunnar - the side of Gunnar's face is bruised, but he still looks cheerful, then amused, as he sees Bofur behind Bilbo. 

"I knew you would come," Ori whispers, looking at Bofur in surprise as well. "But, ah, I didn't think you'll um, bring a friend."

"Oh! Ah. Everyone, this is Bofur. Bofur, this is Ori, Dori and Gunnar. He's, ah, yes, he's a friend." Bilbo's sure that he's starting to blush, and he's thankful for the shadows of the street.

Dori's also frowning at Bofur severely, but Gunnar coughs. "Ah, he can have my pony. I'll find another and catch up, wherever you lot might be headed."

"We're going to find Nori, of course," Ori says quickly.

"Actually," Bilbo adds hastily, "Gunnar, maybe you should go to the Shire. Find Paladin and Esme and tell them what's happened here. Bring your tools, just in case. Ori and Dori will be fine with me." 

"Good call," Gunnar nods slowly. "So you'll be going off to Bree-land? Should I tell them that?"

"We're going to locate a forge outside Ered Luin first." Bilbo says tiredly. "There's something I need destroyed."

"Well," Gunnar blinks, "If you need something destroyed, then I'm 'fraid to say that I'm the dwarf for it, Mister Baggins."

True. 

"I'll go to the Shire," Dori says firmly, before Bilbo can add anything. "Mister Baggins, I trust you to take care of my little brother. I'll find a way to catch up once I've updated Paladin and Esme."

"But Dori!" Ori interrupts, blinking.

"Nori might be in the Shire, for all we know." Dori hugs his little brother tightly. "And I do trust Mister Baggins to be sensible." He hands the reins of his pony to Bofur, and steps back. "Be careful."

" _You_ be careful, Dori," It's Bilbo's turn to be hugged tightly, then they saddle up, and head out on a brisk trot. Ori has his head turned to watch his brother as they pass out of the night gate, then he turns his eyes to his hands, and squeezes them shut.


	15. Chapter 15

XXIX

They didn't have to locate an old mining smithy after all - Gunnar had built a workshop of his own off one of the abandoned small copper mines, and it was clear that the smithy had seen fairly recent use - it was clean and swept and full of Gunnar's occasionally insane drawings of cunning, mostly explosive devices.

Like most dwarven smithies, it's built surprisingly large, with high ceilings and smoothed walls, even this far away from Ered Luin. Bilbo can't really understand the dwarven penchant for oversized tools. He's seen the gigantic hammers in the great smithies underground in Ered Luin, once, and couldn't quite figure out why they were necessary to work bars of metal. Overcompensation, perhaps? He'd never dared ask. 

"I didn't know about this place," Bilbo remarks, as he takes it all in with a few quick glances. "I've never heard it mentioned over in the Guild."

"Nori knew about it. It was his idea," Gunnar shrugs. "Somethin' about how if I wanted to figure out what made things blow up, I should do it where nothin' else but meself would catch fire."

That figured. 

Gunnar and Bofur bustle about the forge, loading it with coal, and Bilbo sits to a side with Ori, trying not to think of the ring in his pouch. He had decided not to show it to the others, just in case. He had no idea what it did - what it _could_ do, other than it seemed to have eaten into Thorin's mind, maybe on sight. Was it a dwarf thing? Or perhaps it worked on touch? But Bilbo had touched it when he had searched Thorin, and yet, he felt nothing but anticipation, right now, and a little disgust. Some fear. That was good, wasn't it? He didn't feel any powerful urges to keep the damned thing. Or was it more subtle than that? 

Oh, he did wish Nori was here! 

"Nori told me to talk to you, when I last saw him," Bilbo tells Ori, just for a distraction, and Ori smiles wanly at him.

"He said to watch out for Thorin. He also had detailed plans for the relocation of the Guild headquarters and for a reassignment of most Guild members. He was worried about something that Thorin had on his person. He gave me the location of some plans he had drawn up - he had an idea about recovering this item. He wouldn't tell me what it was, though - he said you would know."

"Well," Bilbo lets out a startled laugh. "I guess we got a bit ahead of them there. I've already got it." 

"We did?" Ori looks relieved. "Oh, thank Mahal! I thought that when Dori and I got arrested, I had just messed up all of Nori's plans! He does get so very annoyed when that happens." 

"No, Ori, everything worked out for the best," Bilbo assures him, as the fire in the forge gets built up, the entire workshop first becoming stiflingly warm, then uncomfortably so, until the forge is cherry red from the coals.

"All right then," Gunnar's sweating, but clearly gleeful from the prospect of destruction. "What are we destroyin', then?" 

"Gold. Probably gold."

"Y'want to cast it into somethin' else again after?"

"No... actually," Bilbo frowns a little. He has no idea how any sort of magical ring is really meant to be safely destroyed or disposed of, and feels rather out of his depth for a moment before he rallies. "The gold might also have to be disposed of in separate pieces."

"All right then, we'll need graphite," Gunnar gets a gray stone crucible from a workbench with a grunt of effort. "I've got a big barrel of rainwater that we can use to make gold shot, then I s'pose we could scatter that in the forest or into a river. Will that work?"

"I suppose so. Yes." It isn't as though Bilbo has any better ideas. For a moment, he considers holding on to the Ring until he finds Nori and Gandalf, then he hardens his heart against doubt. They have to _try_.

Gunnar nods, placing the crucible on the hot coals, gesturing as Bofur heads about to work the bellows. "You're lucky the blacksmith's coals weren't looted," he gestures at the pit. "Won't be able to melt down gold otherwise."

It seems to take an eternity before Gunnar decides the crucible's ready, and he beckons to Bilbo, who swallows hard and steps over to the crucible. "Maybe everyone should stand back a bit," he allows, and as Bofur's eyes narrow, he adds, "Even you, Bofur. Please."

Dubiously, the dwarves back off nearly to the door, and offering a prayer to Yavanna under his breath, Bilbo gets a handkerchief, picks up the ring from his pouch, and drops it into the crucible.

The ring settles quickly at the base of the heated crucible - and - nothing. Not even a bubble on the edge. Bilbo exhales loudly, disappointed, and then blinks. On the inside of the ring, an ugly, curling symbol appears, red, like blood. 

"That's a number," Ori says at his elbow, and Bilbo nearly starts violently. "I've seen it before, in the library. It's the language of the orc." 

"The ring's not melting," Bilbo mutters, rather unnecessarily - Bofur and Gunnar are both clustered over the crucible. 

"Must be an alloy in the ring," Gunnar's already heaving more coals into the forge.

"Or black magic," Bofur observes mildly. At Bilbo's deep sigh, Bofur grins, stepping back over to the bellows to work the coals hotter. "Just explorin' the possibilities."

"I've got some... experimental... powders and such," Gunnar notes dubiously. "Could make a fire as hot as dragonfire." 

"Great!" Bilbo perks up.

"The problem is, it's also as _explosive_ as dragonfire. And, I'm going to need time to mix it up." Gunnar's pulling drawers from the workbench, piling materials and tools up upon it. 

"Mix it up first. We'll worry about how explosive it is later."

"Oh, we are, are we?" Bofur arches his eyebrows. "Y'think it's a _good_ idea to recreate dragonfire in a confined space, d'you?"

Bilbo is about to turn and argue when his trained ears pick up a scrape of rock from the outside, even over the smithing bellows and the crackle of flame. He whirls, bolter raised, and the first orc trying to sneak through the door to the smithy gets shot through the neck.

" _Orcs?_ " Ori yelps. "Where did they-"

"They tunnel as well as we do," Bofur groans, "We're close to an old mine! No wonder they've been so damned quiet-"

"All right, I'll hold them off and-"

"Ori, take over here," Bofur says firmly, but Ori's already digging out a bag of stones and a sling. A goblin trying to climb through a window shrieks as a stone smacks right into its forehead, causing it to fall backwards onto another goblin. 

"You _all_ hold them off," Gunnar says sharply from the workbench. "I'm going to need time. Time! Don't worry about the coals. This powder'll ignite fine with even a little flame." 

Bilbo groans, but he does see when he's outmatched, and the goblins and orcs are a thick mass beyond the doors and the windows of the small smithy. They're cornered. He ducks a swing from an orc and jams his knives into its gut, darting free as it bellows and swings its axe wildly, chopping into the shoulder of the orc behind it. Bofur has a mattock buried in the body of a goblin, blocking the jab of another's dagger with its haft, gritting his teeth as he jerks the mattock free and slams the heavy end of the pick into the second goblin's skull.

The quarters are too tight for finessing, too close to reload his bolter. Bilbo's arms soon get bloody to the elbows, the bodies piling up. Ori's backing away from the windows, out of stones, awkwardly wielding Bofur's spare mining pick, but at close quarters a heavy weapon swung sharply makes up a little for a lack of skill, and desperation lends enthusiasm and strength to the little dwarf scribe. They can't hold out long, though - they're being pushed back, as the orcs and goblins push at them, relentless - over to the right, Bofur cries out as a blade gashes open his flank, nearly dropping his mattock, though he kicks wildly at the orc's knee, connects, and sweeps the mattock down over its spine as the orc collapses.

"Not good!" Gunnar tells them frantically from the workbench. "Still working on it! Keep them back!"

"Work faster!" Bilbo shouts over his shoulder.

"I could help you lot clean out the mess first!"

Bilbo frowns at the numbers that he can see, and dodges another swipe from an axe, disembowelling the orc with precise swipes of his blade as he goes. Even if Gunnar joins the fray, he doubts that they'll get far, and then the orcs would have the Ring. "No. We have to destroy the Ring. I'm sorry, Gunnar. Ori. Bofur."

"We had a good run, even if it was a short one," Bofur says softly, wincing as he blocks a hammering blow from an orc and sweeps a goblin sharply into the wall with a swing of his mattock. "I don't regret a bit of it."

"Nor I," Bilbo replies warmly, ducking between an orc's legs and hamstringing him, then weaving out from under another orc's grab to bury a knife in the back of an orc about to take a swing at Ori's unprotected back. "Nor I."

Ori jerks back, distracted, and an orc uses the moment to slam the haft of his axe against the young dwarf's temple. Ori drops, stunned, his head bleeding, and Bilbo snarls, darting away from a downward swing to angle his blades up through the orc's ribcage and into its heart. It's a bad move - it takes him a moment to get his blades free, and an orc grabs him from the back with a fistful of his cloak. Bilbo fumbles at the leaf clasp, tearing it free with a flick of the hidden knife, and he tumbles onto the ground, landing quickly enough to get his small boot knife and throw it sharply between the orc's eyes. 

As he yanks his knives free, Bofur's at his side, bleeding from the gash and other shallower wounds, grinning his secretive, mischievous grin despite it all, the orcs pressing ever closer, and maybe this is the end, Bilbo thinks, suddenly calm, empty of fury, of fear. They've tried. They've-

A bugling bellow makes the orcs hesitate and turn, then there's a sudden thunder of hooves and a cry from the rear ranks of the orcs. It's Gandalf and Strider, and a handful of other Men, ahead of a haphazard team of slower ponies carrying Nori, Paladin, Primula and a muster of other Guild members, shouting war cries as they smash into the orc rear guard like a shattering hammer. The orcs try to rally, but terror and confusion break their ranks as the Men cut a vicious swathe through them, all dressed like Strider, hooded and armored, with bows and longswords. The Rangers of the North, Bilbo presumed, blinking, as terrifying as their reputation.

Under the assault, the orcs and goblins start a wild retreat, running for the woods, for the mine, scattering and shrieking in fright. The Rangers harry them, even as Nori and Dori push quickly into the smithy to Ori's side, horrified.

"He's only stunned," Bilbo tells them, wiping his blades gingerly on a fallen orc before sheathing them, even as Gandalf steps into the smithy, looking about keenly, then stepping over to the crucible. "It didn't work. The fire's not hot enough - yet."

"Yet?" Gandalf echoes, arching an eyebrow. 

Bilbo explains about Gunnar, who looks suddenly nervous under the Wizard's searching stare, then Gandalf nods, slowly, pulling at his beard.

"Hum! That could work. Yes indeed. Dragonfire _did_ consume some of the other dwarven Rings. Well done."

"Well done _you_ ," Bilbo looks between Nori and Gandalf, shaky with relief. "If you hadn't come when you had-"

"We were heading back to Ered Luin to have a _pointed_ chat with Thorin when we ran into Dori. Naturally, Nori led us here instead." Gandalf says cheerfully. "I'm glad to see that it's worked out."

"Assuming that Gunnar doesn't blow us all up right now," Nori says sourly, cradling his little brother's head. "Mahal's beard, how did you even get that damned thing?"

"Well I-"

"It was a rhetorical question. Dori updated us on the way here," Nori shakes his head slowly, a grin stealing over his haggard face. "And to think that I thought that there wouldn't ever be a thief to beat your mum. I was wrong."

"Thanks," Bilbo notes dubiously, as Bofur curls a hand into his, squeezing lightly, "I suppose."

"Well," Nori adds, looking pointedly at Bofur's hand and letting out a lugubrious sigh, "I s'pose since your mum and dad are long laid to rest, Dori and I could play substitute if you're going to go through the usual-"

"That won't be necessary," Bilbo interrupts quickly, as Bofur opens his mouth. "But thank you all the same." He squeezes back, and Bofur grins at him; there's nothing secretive about this smile, nothing remotely furtive about its great-hearted warmth.

XXX.

A 'controlled explosion' creates a fireball big enough to singe Bilbo's eyebrows even from the safety of the tree-line and blow the stone top off the smithy, by dint of an arrow with a bag of the dragonfire powder fired through the window and into the forge by Strider. Gunnar looks gleeful, and, Bilbo's sad to see, it's obvious that Strider's also, as he had thought, young by way of the years of Men - he too looks positively thrilled.

The fire takes hours to burn to embers, and Gandalf pokes about the crucible gingerly with the tip of his sword, then he straightens up and nods. The Ring has been destroyed - the tiny puddle of gold left within it, Gandalf declares, is harmless. There's a tired and ragged cheer from the gathered Men and Guild, and sitting where he is beside a freshly bandaged Bofur, Bilbo dares steal a quick kiss. He's still too numbed from the battle, from having briefly accepted the certainty of death - his _and_ Bofur's, and their friends. 

Strider and the Rangers depart soon after, deciding to chase down the rest of the scattered orcs, and most of the Guild start to pick their way back towards the Shire. "Not going back yet?" Nori asks Bilbo. "The fireball and the smoke was probably visible from Ered Luin."

"In a bit," Bilbo nods, patting Bofur's knee. "The Ring's been destroyed. Surely Thorin's snapped out of it."

"I'm afraid that the dwarven Rings are rather more insidious," Gandalf sighs, "But certainly, given time, Thorin will recover. Dwarves are a resilient folk." 

"Well, I hope he does it soon," Bilbo says dubiously, "Before his city burns down around his ears. It was well on its way to doing that the last I was there."

"Esme's returning to Ered Luin along with the Princess and Balin," Nori grunts. "I'm not fond of her, but I think between her and Balin, they'll sort things out."

"So I can head back to the city then?" Gunnar pipes in. "Just sayin', I had a few experiments winding up in my smithy that've been left t'boil over since I was arrested and I'm a wee bit concerned that they may be a wee bit volatile-"

" _What_?"

Nori and Gunnar leave hastily, with Nori snarling at Gunnar all the way. Ori and Dori watch them go, bemused, then Ori hugs Bilbo tightly and Dori shakes his hand, then Bofur's, and they hurry to mount ponies to get after their brother. 

"Where are you headed next?" Bilbo asks Gandalf, as the Wizard potters about the glowing embers of the destroyed smithy.

"Hum! I have a thought about it." Gandalf says wearily, picking his way back towards them. "Perhaps these darker days of late are a sign."

"The Rings?"

"Perhaps. I will have to look into it," Gandalf nods, leaning on his staff. 

"Well," Bilbo decides, "Perhaps we can help you there." He pats Bofur's wrist as Bofur turns to glance at him curiously. "The Guild's out of business, and we might even be out of a home. I was thinking of re-housing everyone in the Shire, and then organising a change to our purpose."

"Away from burglary?" Bofur grins.

"Well, to a more specialised sort of burglary. All remaining Guild members, if they're willing, might have to take longer, more dangerous runs. If the Rings are what's causing the world's problems, we'll find them, at the least, wherever they are, and-"

"The lesser Rings aren't quite the problem," Gandalf interrupts. "They're... symptoms, I should say. The One Ring, now, that is the key to breaking the enemy's back. It has been lost for centuries."

"Then if it's anywhere to be found, we'll find it, or try our damnedest," Bilbo warms to his subject. "We'll send dwarves and hobbits to the cities of Men and the remaining dwarven holdings. Spy out orc patterns in the mountains-"

"And it won't be destroyed as easily as this," Gandalf waves at the smithy. "No dragonfire would melt the One. You'll have to venture into Mordor itself."

Bofur shivers, but Bilbo squares his shoulders, still determined. "Sneaking into a stronghold of orc? That'll be a job for the very best of burglars, then, I warrant. You'll find no one better for the job than us. Anyone else, untrained, sent on such a job would be committing suicide."

Gandalf grins then, whiskery and broad. "Well! Perhaps. You do surprise me after all, Bilbo Baggins. I might call by now and then to see how you're progressing. Hopefully, I'll have good news of my own, as well, for you and your Guild."

"Not a Guild any longer, I think," Bilbo says reflectively, "Not now that we have so obvious a purpose. I do believe it'll be more like a fellowship."

"The Fellowship of the Ring?" Bofur asks, a little facetiously, as he grins, the touch of his hand around Bilbo's waist tender, yet fierce. Even in this, Bilbo knows, Bofur will be with him - to the bitter end, if need be. It's a humbling thought.

"Quite right." Bilbo tips up his chin, to brush a playful kiss on Bofur's mouth, swallow the laugh that the dwarf offers in return. "The Fellowship of the Ring. Long may it walk softly in the dark places of the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and following this terribly long meandering ramble to its end. :O
> 
> Sadly, I've run out of energy now that I've hit the Nano 50k minimum limit ^^;; If I have more time and energy I'll add on stories in this 'verse with a few timeskips to show how everyone's going along and tie up the loose ends. Or, if anyone else would like to play in this 'verse, I'm always happy to let them do so. :) Thanks again! Looking forward to the next film!

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions, ficbunnies or just want to chat, I'm on twitter @manic_intent and tumblr at manic-intent.tumblr.com :3
> 
> For new readers: This is how I like to write - [[The Case for Writing A Story Before Knowing How It Ends](http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/10/the-case-for-writing-a-story-before-knowing-how-it-ends/280387/)] :)


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